“Have I not held converse with the animals of the land, the birds of the air, and shall I not one day perchance comb the hair of Nerrvik in the sea!”

The drums beat more loudly; the dancers hopped and leaped.  The chorus replied: 

“Thou lurest the walrus and seal from the sea, thou enticest the caribou, ahmingmah and birds unto thee!  Thou hast learned the language of nature, and the happy spirits are kind to thee!  Marvellous is thy power, Ootah.”

And in the chorus, deep, hoarse, sneeringly ironical rang the words of Maisanguaq: 

“Marvellous is thy power, Ootah,” and his low bitter laughter followed.

The white men began to sing as they danced with the chubby women.  In couples they rocked to and fro.

“Have I not killed of all the birds of the air, the animals of the land and sea!  Have I not observed the customs of the august dead?  Have I done aught to bring misfortune to the tribe?”

In spontaneous recognition of his pre-eminence the young men freely yielded Annadoah.  Only Maisanguaq felt bitter.

Ootah summoned his helpers and the sleds of blubber were drawn to the immediate entrance of Annadoah’s tent.  He seemed to step upon air.  His heart bounded.

“Annadoah!  Annadoah!” he called.  “Ootah waits thee.  Ootah hath brought thee treasure from the depths of the sea.  Strong is the arm and brave is the heart of Ootah when the arm strikes and the heart beats with the thought of thee.”

Seeing him there, the natives ceased dancing.  The white men, curious, drew near the tent.

As he stood there, his head erect, proud, expectant, he became conscious of a sudden ominous silence on the part of his companions.  Some distance away the women were whispering to one another, and above, in the sky, circled a black guillemot.

“Annadoah,” he softly called.

Only the hawk replied.

“Annadoah, I bring thee my love, as constant as my shadow!  I bring thee riches!  Ootah would give thy couch new furs and caress thee.”

From the brown, weather worn sealskin tent came the murmurous sound of voices.  Ootah heard the voice of Annadoah—­and that of another.

The black bird in the sky screamed.

Not far distant in the tent of the angakoq Ootah heard the low disquieting sound of a drum beaten in some malevolent incantation.

His heart sank as heavily as a dead walrus sinks in the sea.

Something stifled him.  Then the flap of the tent parted and Annadoah stepped forth, her head tossed haughtily, her beautiful eyes flashing.

“Get hence,” she said.  “Thou art a boy, thy tongue is that of a boy.  Thou art soft—­thou hast the heart of a woman.”

“Annadoah . . .”  Ootah’s voice wailed.  The stretch of shore seemed to heave and writhe.  He put out his hands as if to ward off a blow.