to the love that had stirred in the bosom now cold beneath the sea.  All the primitive deep profundity of the devotion of that wild-hearted man who had brought a wealth of food to her from over the mountains, who had faced death for her on the frozen seas, who had tended her in her time of trial with the gentleness of a woman, his indomitable heroism, the splendor, the dauntless unselfishness and bravery of his offering to father her sightless child—­all this—­all this, and more—­welled up in the heart of Annadoah.

“Nerrvik! Nerrvik!  To him who loved her Annadoah lied.  Dead, she told him, was her heart as a frozen bird in wintertime—­but her heart was only sleeping!  And now the wings are beating—­beating within her breast! Ootah! Ootah! Ioh-h, ioh-h!”

Her voice broke.  She beat her little breasts.  She bent over the sea and listened.  For a long while she watched.

Then, from the shadows in the clouds, the answer came.  Truly Ootah was brave, and his heart was marvellously kind; unsurpassed was his skill on the hunt and of every animal did he kill; and great was his love for Annadoah.  Even the spirits had marvelled and spoken of it among themselves; but Annadoah had chosen her fate; she had denied the love that had unfalteringly pursued her, and now that she desired it, even so to her was that love to be denied.  That was fate.

Then in a clamorous outbreak did Annadoah plead with Kokoyah.  She grovelled on the ground.  She called upon all the spirits of the winds and air.  In a tremulous, heart-broken plaint she finally called upon the spirits of her father, her mother, and those who had gone before them.

But unrelenting, passionless, the answer came—­from the shadows in the clouds, from the winds, from the moaning sea.  To warm the wild heart under the water was beyond the power of all the spirits.  They repeated to her, as in mockery, all that she had told them that Ootah had done, of his mighty love for her; but nevermore might she soothe his injured limbs, nevermore might she touch his gentle hands, nevermore might she look into his tender and adoring eyes.  His hands were cold, his eyes were closed, his heart was still.  It throbbed with the thought of her no more—­and that would be forever.  That was fate.

A frail, pitiful figure, Annadoah stood on the cliff, wringing her hands toward the declining sun.  In the midst of that wild golden-burning desolation, Annadoah felt her utter loneliness, her tragic helplessness.  In all the universe she felt herself utterly alone.

Far away, awed by the heroism, the very splendor of the bravery of the man who had perished, the tribe stood murmuring.  In their hearts was no little unkindness toward Annadoah.  But, forsaken, outcast, she did not care.

Over the aureate shimmering seas she wrung her little hands and into the waves lapping at her feet her tears fell like rain.  For the heart of Annadoah ached.  Nothing in the world any more mattered.  All that she had loved had perished in the sea.  And she loved too late.