She placed the last bead, knotted the sinew, and replenished the fire.  Then, after gazing long into the flames, she lifted her head to the harsh crunch-crunch of a moccasined foot against the flinty snow granules.  Keesh was at her side, bending slightly forward to a load which he bore upon his back.  This was wrapped loosely in a soft-tanned moosehide, and he dropped it carelessly into the snow and sat down.  They looked at each other long and without speech.

“It is a far fetch, O Keesh,” she said at last, “a far fetch from St. George Mission by the Yukon.”

“Ay,” he made answer, absently, his eyes fixed keenly upon the belt and taking note of its girth.  “But where is the knife?” he demanded.

“Here.”  She drew it from inside her parka and flashed its naked length in the firelight.  “It is a good knife.”

“Give it me!” he commanded.

“Nay, O Keesh,” she laughed.  “It may be that thou wast not born to wear it.”

“Give it me!” he reiterated, without change of tone.  “I was so born.”

But her eyes, glancing coquettishly past him to the moosehide, saw the snow about it slowly reddening.  “It is blood, Keesh?” she asked.

“Ay, it is blood.  But give me the belt and the long Russian knife.”

She felt suddenly afraid, but thrilled when he took the belt roughly from her, thrilled to the roughness.  She looked at him softly, and was aware of a pain at the breast and of small hands clutching her throat.

“It was made for a smaller man,” he remarked grimly, drawing in his abdomen and clasping the buckle at the first hole.

Su-Su smiled, and her eyes were yet softer.  Again she felt the soft hands at her throat.  He was good to look upon, and the belt was indeed small, made for a smaller man; but what did it matter?  She could make many belts.

“But the blood?” she asked, urged on by a hope new-born and growing.  “The blood, Keesh?  Is it ... are they ... heads?”

“Ay.”

“They must be very fresh, else would the blood be frozen.”

“Ay, it is not cold, and they be fresh, quite fresh.”

“Oh, Keesh!” Her face was warm and bright.  “And for me?”

“Ay; for thee.”

He took hold of a corner of the hide, flirted it open, and rolled the heads out before her.

“Three,” he whispered savagely; “nay, four at least.”

But she sat transfixed.  There they lay—­the soft-featured Nee-Koo; the gnarled old face of Gnob; Makamuk, grinning at her with his lifted upper lip; and lastly, Nossabok, his eyelid, up to its old trick, drooped on his girlish cheek in a suggestive wink.  There they lay, the firelight flashing upon and playing over them, and from each of them a widening circle dyed the snow to scarlet.

Thawed by the fire, the white crust gave way beneath the head of Gnob, which rolled over like a thing alive, spun around, and came to rest at her feet.  But she did not move.  Keesh, too, sat motionless, his eyes unblinking, centred steadfastly upon her.