The recoiling impetus of the waters gradually increased under them.  Ootah knew this indicated an approach to land.  The waves came in shorter, but quicker swells.  The floe bumped into others.  Ootah roused himself and hopefully turned toward Maisanguaq.

“We approach the land,” he called.  “We must bide our time—­then jump.”

The waves washed the floe toward the distant shore.  Land ice steadily thickened about them.  Maisanguaq realized that they were actually being carried to the sheltering harbor of the arm-like glacier south of the village.  Ootah quickly began unlashing Annadoah so as to be prepared to seize her and spring, when the opportunity came, from cake to cake, to safety.

Impelled by a warning instinct, Ootah suddenly looked up from his task, and felt rather than saw Maisanguaq near and about to leap upon him.  Maisanguaq’s eyes dimly glowered in the dark.  Ootah rose quickly.  Maisanguaq drew back and uttered an exclamation of chagrin.  Ootah understood.  With rescue possible, Maisanguaq had quickly come to a desperate resolution.

The girl lay between them.

Ootah braced himself.

“I hate thee, Ootah,” Maisanguaq shouted, no longer able to suppress the baffled jealousy and seething envy endured quietly for many seasons.  He moved about, parleying for time and a chance to spring upon Ootah when he was unguarded.

“I hate thee not, Maisanguaq,” Ootah replied.

He steeled himself, for he knew Maisanguaq was strong, he knew the ice was treacherous; he waited for the man to strike.

“My heart warms for Annadoah; so doth thine:  therefore, thou or I must die.”  Maisanguaq’s deep voice sounded hoarse through the storm.

“As thou sayest,” Ootah replied, “but why?”

“Annadoah must be thine or mine; dead, she cannot choose thee, and with thee dead, my strength shall cow her.  As men did of old I shall carry her away by force.  She shall be mine.”

“Annadoah hath already chosen—­her heart is in the south,” Ootah replied, sadly.

“Fool!” the other man shrieked.  “Didst thou not go to the mountains to get her food; didst thou not thieve from thine own self to give oil to her; didst thou not fawn upon her and perform the services of a woman?  Thou liest if thou sayest thou wilt not have her for thy wife.  No man doeth this unseeking of reward.”

“I love Annadoah,” Ootah said, bitterly.

“Yea, and thou hast hope.”

“Perchance—­perchance I have hope.”

“And Annadoah looks with favor upon thee—­I have seen it in her eyes.  Did she not greet thee as women greet their lovers when thou camest from the mountains, and did she not bind thy wounds with strange ointment?”

“She thought of another—­her heart was in the south.”

“Hath she not sought thee hither—­upon the ice—­when the women fell upon her with their curses?  Her heart wings to thee, did she not say, as birds to green grasses in the mountains?”