She rose and moved bewilderedly about the igloo.  She felt weak and dazed.  At any moment they might break into her immaculate new home and seize the child from her arms.  At any instant they might come with wicked ropes to wrap about the baby’s tender neck.  That she must flee she knew—­but where?  Where?  She thought of Ootah.  But Ootah was in the mountains.  And not a moment could be lost.  In these matters the natives lose little time.  Moreover, she knew the women hated her; and that they had succeeded in making the men gradually bitter.

“Olafaksoah!  Olafaksoah!” she called tragically.  Then she recalled with a start that Olafaksoah had summer headquarters some twenty miles to the south.  It was a boxhouse, built on a promontory of the Greenland coast.  She remembered it, as she had seen it on a journey south some summers before; the way thither, dangerous at this season of the year when the ice was breaking, she well knew.  Yes, she would seek refuge there.

“Perchance Olafaksoah hath returned—­did he not say he would return in the spring?  When the buntings sing?” She laughed spontaneously.  “Yea, yea!  We will go there, Little Blind Spring Bunting.”

Quickly she adjusted her own new garments, and then she took the little golden baby and over its head and shoulders laced a tight-fitting hood of soft young fox skin.  This done she gently placed the child into the hood on her back.  Inside this was lined with the breasts of baby auks and made downy with fibrous moss.  She hurriedly secured the child to herself by means of a sinew thread which passed about its body as it reposed in the hood, and which in turn, passing under her arms, she tied about the upper portion of her waist.  The voices outside had ceased.

Suppressing her very breath, she crept through the long tunnel leading from the igloo and peeped cautiously from the entrance.  She could hear her heart throb.  She feared the natives might detect it.

Five hundred feet to the north a group were engaged in excited conversation.  Annadoah’s brain whirled with the fragments of what they said.  She knew the moment had come to depart.  She emerged and on all fours crept to the protecting lee of her igloo where she was hidden from their view.

An open space of six hundred feet lay between her and the cliff around which the trail to the southern shelter lay.  Annadoah summoned all her strength of will, and then proceeded to walk slowly, with her head bent and her face concealed, so as to avoid arousing suspicion, over the dangerous area.  Her heart trembled within her—­at any moment she expected to hear the savage cries.  When she reached the cliff she felt as if she were about to faint.

Looking fearfully backward, with a sigh of immeasurable relief, she saw that she was unobserved.  Raising her head heavenward she breathed her thanks to the dead father and mother who were undoubtedly watching.  She turned about the cliff, her heart bounding tumultuously, and, panting the words of the magic spell, asked that her legs be given the swiftness of the wind spirits.  She was very faint, she had scarcely any feeling whatever in her limbs; but summoning all her courage, bringing to bear all the love of this child she sought to save, she turned and ran.