“Thou art cold of heart to him who loves thee, Annadoah,” a voice seemed to whisper in the lapping waves.  “Thou art beautiful as the sun, but as Sukh-eh-nukh shall thou be eternally sad.  Thou shalt lose because of thine own self the greatest of all treasures.  That is fate.”

Far out on the open ocean spectral fire-flecks flashed like mast-lights on swinging ships.  These mysterious jack o’ lanterns of the arctic are caused by the crashing together of icebergs covered with phosphorescent algae.

To Annadoah the dead were lighting their oil lamps for the long night.  As she watched the weird illuminations a paralyzing fear of the vague unknown world beyond the gate of death filled her, and her blood ran cold.  She felt utterly crushed, utterly helpless, and utterly deserted, both in the affection of the living and that of the dead.  She uttered a despairing cry and fell back in a cold faint.  The women drew about as if to leap upon her.

A momentary wavering of the northern lights revealed her face grown sad and wan.  The women stood still, however, for approaching in the distance they heard a man’s voice calling: 

  “Avatarpay—­avatarpay,
  akorgani—­akorgani,
  anagpungah . . .”

Those mystic words, believed to give magic speed to the one who utters them, came in the well known tones of Ootah.  A joyous cry went up from the women.

When Annadoah opened her eyes Ootah was bending over her.

“I was held in the mountains, Annadoah.  The hill spirits were at war.  The snow came, the storm spirits loosed the ice.  I fell into an abyss . . .  I lay asleep . . . for very long.  It seemed like many moons.  I could barely walk when I awoke.  I had no food.  I became very weak, but I uttered the serrit (magic formula;), those words of the days when man’s sap was stronger, and the good winds bore me hither.”

A mystical silver light had risen over the horizon, and in the soft glimmer Annadoah saw that the face of Ootah was haggard and drawn.  His voice was weak.

“The sun hath gone,” murmured Ootah.  “The long night comes.  Ootah heard thy cry and has come to care for thee, Annadoah.”

His voice was a caress.  His face sank dangerously near the face of the girl.  She panted into full consciousness and struggled to free herself.  Ootah helped her to her feet.

“The winter comes . . . and famine,” muttered Annadoah, hopelessly.  She pointed to the gaunt, hollow-eyed shadow, empurpled-robed, against the frozen cliffs.  “My heart is cold—­I am resigned to death.”

“But I have come to give furs for thy couch,” murmured Ootah, a beseeching look in his eyes.  “Thou wilt need shelter—­I shall build thee an igloo.  Thou wilt need food—­I shall share all that I have with thee and seek more.  Thou wilt need oil for heat.  I shall get this for thee.”

Annadoah made a passionate gesture.  A curious perverse resentment for the youth’s insistent devotion rose in her heart.