“Nay,” she said, warding him away.  “My shadow yearns only to the south . . . the far, far south.”

“Thy soul yearns to the south—­forsooth, will I all the more cherish thee.  Thou art frail, and the teeth of ookiah (winter) are sharp.”

“The teeth of ookiah are not so sharp as the teeth in my heart,” sobbed Annadoah.

Ootah felt a great pity for her—­a pity and tenderness greater than his jealousy.

“But I shall teach thee to forget, Annadoah.”

“I cannot forget.  Even as the ravens in their winter shelter dream of the summer sun, so my soul grows warm, in all my loneliness, in the memory of Olafaksoah.”

Ootah groaned with an access of misery.  Frenziedly he caught her hands and pressed them.  Annadoah struggled.  His words beat hotly in her ears: 

“But I want thee.  My blood burns at the thought of thee.  It is against the custom of the tribe that thou shouldst be alone.  Thou must take a husband.”

“No—­no,” she shook her head.

“But some one must care for thee.  I love thee.  Thou wilt forget Olafaksoah.  Thy hurt will heal.”

Annadoah shook her head piteously.

“Do the gulls that freeze to death in winter fly in springtime?” she asked, simply.

Ootah did not reply.

“He was strong,” she murmured.  “His hands bruised me.  He was cruel.  He hurt me.  Yet he gave my heart joy.  My heart is dying—­dying as the birds die.  I feel the teeth of the wolves in my heart.”

Ootah pointed to the women.  The soft crooning of their voices reached him as they resumed the dismal dirge of their own woes.

“They hate thee,” he said.  He pointed to the constellation of the Great Bear which glittered faintly in the sky.  “Yonder qiligtussat (the barking dogs) would rend the gentle bear.  Thou rememberest the old men’s tale.  A woman ran away from her family.  She was false at heart.  The good mother bear protected her and gave her food.  But yearning for her husband, she returned and to gain his favor betrayed the hiding place of the mother-bear and her young.  Then the husband drove out with sledges.  His dogs attacked the bear.  But they all became stars and went up into the sky.  Even as the bear was good to the false woman so hast thou made clothing for those yonder, and now they would as the dogs rend thee.  Thou needest a husband.”

“They would be bitter to thee,” she argued.

“Perchance, but I would protect thee.  I love thee.”

Annadoah shook her head.  “The teeth of the wolves are in my heart,” she said.  “And I no longer care.”

“Yonder Nalagssartoq (he who waits and listens) bends to hear thy reply.”  Ootah pointed to Venus, the brightest of the stars—­to the Eskimos an old man who waits by a blow-hole in the heavenly icefloes and listens for the breathing of seals.  “Thou wilt come to Ootah, who loves thee?  Answer, Annadoah!  Ootah listens.”