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  into safety against Fairfax's return. But Thom stretched out a detaining

  hand and stood up, facing him.

  "You?" she said, in the Arctic tongue which differs little from Greenland

  to Point Barrow. "You?"

  And the swift expression of her face demanded all for which "you" stood,

  his reason for existence, his presence there, his relation to her husband—

  everything.

  "Brother," he answered in the same tongue, with a sweeping gesture to the

  south. "Brothers we be, your man and I."

  She shook her head. "It is not good that you be here."

  "After one sleep I go."

  "And my man ?" she demanded, with tremulous eagerness.

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  Van Brunt shrugged his shoulders. He was aware of a certain secret

  shame, of an impersonal sort of shame, and an anger against Fairfax. And

  he felt the warm blood in his face as he regarded the young savage. She

  was just a woman. That was all—a woman. The whole sordid story over

  again, over and over again, as old as Eve and young as the last new lovelight.

  "My man! My man! My man!" she was reiterating vehemently, her face

  passionately dark, and the ruthless tenderness of the Eternal Woman, the

  Mate-Woman, looking out at him from her eyes.

  "Thom," he said gravely, in English, "you were born in the Northland

  forest, and you have eaten fish and meat, and fought with frost and famine,

  and lived simply all the days of your life. And there are many things,

  indeed not simple, which you do not know and cannot come to understand.

  You do not know what it is to long for the flesh-pots afar, you cannot

  understand what it is to yearn for a fair woman's face And the woman is

  fair, Thom, the woman is nobly fair. You have been woman to this man,

  and you have been your all, but your all is very little, very simple. Too

  little and too simple, and he is an alien man. Him you have never known,

  you can never know. It is so ordained. You held him in your arms, but you

  never held his heart, this man with his blurring seasons and his dreams of

  a barbaric end. Dreams and dream-dust, that is what he has been to you.

  You clutched at form and gripped shadow, gave yourself to a man and

  bedded with the wraith of a man. In such manner, of old, did the daughters

  of men whom the gods found fair. And, Thom, Thom, I should not like to

  be John Fairfax in the night-watches of the years to come, in the nightwatches,

  when his eyes shall see, not the sun- gloried hair of the woman

  by his side, but the dark tresses of a mate forsaken in the forests of the

  North."

  Though she did not understand, she had listened with intense attention, as

  though life hung on his speech. But she caught at her husband's name and

  cried out in Eskimo:—

  "Yes ! Yes! Fairfax! My man !"

  "Poor little fool, how could he be your man?"

  But she could not understand his English tongue, and deemed that she was

  being trifled with. The dumb, insensate anger of the MateWoman flamed

  in her face, and it almost seemed to the man as though she crouched

  panther-like for the spring.

  He cursed softly to himself and watched the fire fade from her face and the

  soft luminous glow of the appealing woman spring up, of the appealing

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  11

  woman who foregoes strength and panoplies herself wisely in her

  weakness.

  "He is my man," she said gently. "Never have I known other. It cannot be

  that I should ever know other. Nor can it be that he should go from me."

  "Who has said he shall go from thee?" he demanded sharply, half in

  exasperation, half in impotence.

  "It is for thee to say he shall not go from me," she answered softly, a halfsob

  in her throat.

  Van Brunt kicked the embers of the fire savagely and sat down.

  "It is for thee to say. He is my man. Before all women he is my man. Thou

  art big, thou art strong, and behold, I am very weak. See, I am at thy feet.

  It is for thee to deal with me. It is for thee."

  "Get up !" He jerked her roughly erect and stood up himself. "Thou art a

  woman. Wherefore the dirt is no place for thee, nor the feet of any man. " ,

  "He is my man."

  "Then Jesus forgive all men!" Van Brunt cried out passionately.

  "He is my man," she repeated monotonously, beseechingly.

  "He is my brother," he answered.

  "My father is Chief Tantlatch. He is a power over five villages. I will see

  that the five villages be searched for thy choice of all maidens, that thou

  mayest stay here by thy brother, and dwell in comfort."

  "After one sleep I go."

  "And my man?"

  "Thy man comes now. Behold!"

  From among the gloomy spruces came the light carolling of Fairfax's

  voice.

  As the day is quenched by a sea of fog, so his song smote the light out of

  her face. "It is the tongue of his own people," she said; "the tongue of his

  own people."

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  She turned, with the free movement of a lithe young animal, and made off

  into the forest.

  "It's all fixed," Fairfax called as he came up. "His regal highness will

  receive you after breakfast."

  "Have you told him?" Van Brunt asked.

  "No. Nor shall I tell him till we're ready to pull out."

  Van Brunt looked with moody affection over the sleeping forms of his

  men.

  "I shall be glad when we are a hundred leagues upon our way," he said.

  Thom raised the skin-flap of her father's lodge. Two men sat with him, and

  the three looked at her with swift interest. But her face betokened nothing

  as she entered and took seat quietly, without speech. Tantlatch drummed

  with his knuckles on a spear-heft across his knees, and gazed idly along

  the path of a sun-ray which pierced a lacing-hole and flung a glittering

  track across the murky atmosphere of the lodge. To his right, at his

  shoulder, crouched Chugungatte, the shaman. Both were old men, and the

  weariness of many years brooded in their eyes. But opposite them sat

  Keen, a young man and chief favorite in the tribe. He was quick and alert

  of movement, and his black eyes flashed from face to face in ceaseless

  scrutiny and challenge.

  Silence reigned in the place. Now and again camp noises penetrated, and

  from the distance, faint and far, like the shadows of voices, came the

  wrangling of boys in thin shrill tones. A dog thrust his head into the

  entrance and blinked wolfishly at them for a space, the slaver dripping

  from his ivory-white fangs. After a time he growled tentatively, and then,

  awed by the immobility of the human figures, lowered his head and

  grovelled away backward. Tantlatch glanced apathetically at his daughter.

  "And thy man, how is it with him and thee ?"

  "He sings strange songs," Thom made answer, "and there is a new look on

  his face."

  "So? He hath spoken?"

  "Nay, but there is a new look on his face, a new light in his eyes, and wit
h

  the New-Comer he sits by the fire, and they talk and talk, and the talk is

  without end."

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  Chugungatte whispered in his master's ear, and Keen leaned forward from

  his hips.

  "There be something calling him from afar," she went on, "and he seems

  to sit and listen, and to answer, singing, in his own people's tongue. "

  Again Chugungatte whispered and Keen leaned forward, and Thom held

  her speech till her father nodded his head that she might proceed.

  "It be known to thee, O Tantlatch, that the wild goose and the swan and

  the little ringed duck be born here in the low-lying lands. It be known that

  they go away before the face of the frost to unknown places. And it be

  known, likewise, that always do they return when the sun is in the land

  and the waterways are free. Always do they return to where they were

  born, that new life may go forth. The land calls to them and they come.

  And now there is another land that calls, and it is calling to my man,—the

  land where he was born,—and he hath it in mind to answer the call. Yet is

  he my man. Before all women is he my man."

  "Is it well, Tantlatch? Is it well?" Chugungatte demanded, with the hint of

  menace in his voice.

  "Ay, it is well!" Keen cried boldly. "The land calls to its children and all

  lands call their children home again. As the wild goose and the swan and

  the little ringed duck are called, so is called this Stranger Man who has

  lingered with us and who now must go. Also there be the call of kind. The

  goose mates with the goose, nor does the swan mate with the little ringed

  duck. It is not well that the swan should mate with the little ringed duck.

  Nor is it well that stranger men should mate with the women of our

  villages. Wherefore I say the man should go, to his own kind, in his own

  land."

  "He is my own man," Thom answered, "and he is a great man."

  "Ay, he is a great man." Chugungatte lifted his head with a faint

  recrudescence of youthful vigor. "He is a great man, and he put strength in

  thy arm, O Tantlatch, and gave thee power, and made thy name to be

  feared in the land, to be feared and to be respected. He is very wise, and

  there be much profit in his wisdom. To him are we beholden for many

  things,—for the cunning in war and the secrets of the defence of a village

  and a rush in the forest, for the discussion in council and the undoing of

  enemies by word of mouth and the hard- sworn promise, for the gathering

  of game and the making of traps and the preserving of food, for the curing

  of sickness and mending of hurts of trail and fight. Thou, Tantlatch, wert a

  lame old man this day, were it not that the Stranger Man came into our

  midst and attended on thee. And ever, when in doubt on strange questions,

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  14

  have we gone to him, that out of his wisdom he might make things clear,

  and ever has he made things clear. And there be questions yet to arise, and

  needs upon his wisdom yet to come, and we cannot bear to let him go. It is

  not well that we should let him go."

  Tantlatch continued to drum on the spear-heft, and gave no sign that he

  had heard. Thom studied his face in vain, and Chugungatte seemed to

  shrink together and droop down as the weight of years descended upon

  him again.

  "No man makes my kill." Keen smote his breast a valorous blow. "I make

  my own kill. I am glad to live when I make my own kill. When I creep

  through the snow upon the great moose, I am glad. And when I draw the

  bow, so, with my full strength, and drive the arrow fierce and swift and to

  the heart, I am glad. And the meat of no man's kill tastes as sweet as the

  meat of my kill. I am glad to live, glad in my own cunning and strength,

  glad that I am a doer of things, a doer of things for myself. Of what other

  reason to live than that? Why should I live if I delight not in myself and

  the things I do? And it is because I delight and am glad that I go forth to

  hunt and fish, and it is because I go forth to hunt and fish that I grow

  cunning and strong. The man who stays in the lodge by the fire grows not

  cunning and strong. He is not made happy in the eating of my kill, nor is

  living to him a delight. He does not live. And so I say it is well this

  Stranger Man should go. His wisdom does not make us wise. If he be

  cunning, there is no need that we be cunning. If need arise, we go to him

  for his cunning. We eat the meat of his kill, and it tastes unsweet. We

  merit by his strength, and in it there is no delight. We do not live when he

  does our living for us. We grow fat and like women, and we are afraid to

  work, and we forget how to do things for ourselves. Let the man go, O

  Tantlatch, that we may be men! I am Keen, a man, and I make my own

  kill!"

  Tantlatch turned a gaze upon him in which seemed the vacancy of

  eternity. Keen waited the decision expectantly; but the lips did not move,

  and the old chief turned toward his daughter.

  "That which be given cannot be taken away," she burst forth. "I was but a

  girl when this Stranger Man, who is my man, came among us. And I knew

  not men, or the ways of men, and my heart was in the play of girls, when

  thou, Tantlatch, thou and none other, didst call me to thee and press me

  into the arms of the Stranger Man. Thou and none other, Tantlatch; and as

  thou didst give me to the man, so didst thou give the man to me. He is my

  man. In my arms has he slept, and from my arms he cannot be taken."

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  15

  "It were well, O Tantlatch," Keen followed quickly, with a significant

  glance at Thom, "it were well to remember that that which be given cannot

  be taken away."

  Chugungatte straightened up. "Out of thy youth, Keen, come the words of

  thy mouth. As for ourselves, O Tantlatch, we be old men and we

  understand. We, too, have looked into the eyes of women and felt our

  blood go hot with strange desires. But the years have chilled us, and we

  have learned the wisdom of the council, the shrewdness of the cool head

  and hand, and we know that the warm heart be over- warm and prone to

  rashness. We know that Keen found favor in thy eyes. We know that

  Thom was promised him in the old days when she was yet a child. And we

  know that the new days came, and the Stranger Man, and that out of our

  wisdom and desire for welfare was Thom lost to Keen and the promise

  broken."

  The old shaman paused, and looked directly at the young man.

  "And be it known that I, Chugungatte, did advise that the promise be

  broken."

  "Nor have I taken other woman to my bed," Keen broke in. "And I have

  builded my own fire, and cooked my own food, and ground my teeth in

  my loneliness."

  Chugungatte waved his hand that he had not finished. "I am an old man

  and I speak from understanding. It be good to be strong and grasp for

  power. It be better to forego power that good
come out of it. In the old

  days I sat at thy shoulder, Tantlatch, and my voice was heard over all in

  the council, and my advice taken in affairs of moment. And I was strong

  and held power. Under Tantlatch I was the greatest man. Then came the

  Stranger Man, and I saw that he was cunning and wise and great. And in

  that he was wiser and greater than I, it was plain that greater profit should

  arise from him than from me. And I had thy ear, Tantlatch, and thou didst

  listen to my words, and the Stranger Man was given power and place and

  thy daughter, Thom. And the tribe prospered under the new laws in the

  new days, and so shall it continue to prosper with the Stranger Man in our

  midst. We be old men, we two, O Tantlatch, thou and I, and this be an

  affair of head, not heart. Hear my words, Tantlatch! Hear my words! The

  man remains!"

  There was a long silence. The old chief pondered with the massive

  certitude of God, and Chugungatte seemed to wrap himself in the mists of

  a great antiquity. Keen looked with yearning upon the woman, and she,

  unnoting, held her eyes steadfastly upon her father's face. The wolf-dog

  shoved the flap aside again, and plucking courage at the quiet, wormed

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  16

  forward on his belly. He sniffed curiously at Thom's listless hand, cocked

  ears challengingly at Chugungatte, and hunched down upon his haunches

  before Tantlatch. The spear rattled to the ground, and the dog, with a

  frightened yell, sprang sideways, snapping in midair, and on the second

  leap cleared the entrance.

  Tantlatch looked from face to face, pondering each one long and carefully.

  Then he raised his head, with rude royalty, and gave judgment in cold and

  even tones: "The man remains. Let the hunters be called together. Send a

  runner to the next village with word to bring on the fighting men. I shall

  not see the New-Comer. Do thou, Chugungatte, have talk with him. Tell

  him he may go at once, if he would go in peace. And if fight there be, kill,

  kill, kill, to the last man; but let my word go forth that no harm befall our

  man,—the man whom my daughter hath wedded. It is well."

  Chugungatte rose and tottered out; Thom followed; but as Keen stooped to

  the entrance the voice of Tantlatch stopped him.

  "Keen, it were well to hearken to my word. The man remains. Let no harm