“Olafaksoah!  Olafaksoah!” she struggled to call, but her voice fell to a whisper.

The windows of the grim house were as black as burnt holes; they glared at her unseeingly, without welcome—­like blind eyes.

Desperately she raised her voice.  Only a panting, breathless plaint quavered over the dumb, unreplying rocks.  The sea licked its yellow, hungry tongues below.

At the door of the frame house Annadoah paused and still without losing hope again essayed to call.  Her voice broke.  The house was undoubtedly vacant.  There was no reply.

She bent her head to listen.  She could hardly hear because of the pound of blood in her ears.

Surely he had come—­did he not say he would come in the spring?

She tried the door.  It was locked.

She beat it frenziedly with her fists.  She beat it until her fingers bled.

Then she threw her body against it like a mad thing.  With crooked fingers she clawed savagely at the wood.  At last she quelled the tumult in her bosom and found voice.

“Olafaksoah—­Olafaksoah—­Olafaksoah—­ioh-h-h! Ioh-h-h!” she screamed.  She sank to her knees and pounded at the door-sill with her fists.

When the native tribesmen, furious at her flight, at her temerity in trying to evade their inviolable law, clambered up the cliff, they saw a dark, stark figure lying still before the door of the box-house.  Their voices rose in a raucous clamor.

Like wolves descending eagerly upon their prey they bore down upon the unconscious woman.  Some of the women of the tribe had accompanied them.  Their voices rose with eager, glad calls to vengeance; they demanded the life of Annadoah’s child without delay.  The shrill howl of their dogs was mingled in that vindictive, savage chorus.

“Little Blind Spring Bunting,” Annadoah murmured, awakened from her trance by the approaching calls.

Opening her eyes she saw the troop descending.  Staggering to her feet she stood with her back against the door, facing the clamoring crowd defiantly.  In their veins the savage blood of fierce centuries was aroused, in Annadoah’s heart all the primitive ferocity of maternal protection.

They surrounded her.  The struggle was brief.  In a moment—­while strong hands held her—­they cut the sinew lashing and rudely tore the baby from its hood.  Annadoah fell back, half-stunned, against the floor; in their midst the merciless howling natives had the helpless infant.

As they bore it over the promontory Annadoah uttered a savage, snarling cry, as of a mountain wolf robbed of its youngling, and furiously rushed after them.

Grasping hold of two of the men, she piteously begged them to give her the child.  She made frantic promises.  She pleaded, she sobbed, she raved incoherently.  Holding to the men with a fierce grip she was dragged along on her knees.  Then letting go, she cursed the tribe; she called upon them the malediction of all the spirits.  Her voice broke—­she could only scream.  She tore her hair and fell prostrate, her body throbbing on the rocks.