’Again I cry—­listen, O Thling-Tinneh!  The Wolf dies with teeth fast-locked, and with him there shall sleep ten of thy strongest men,—­men who are needed, for the hunting is not begun, and the fishing is not many moons away.  And again, of what profit should I die?  I know the custom of thy people; thy share of my wealth shall be very small.  Grant me thy child, and it shall all be thine.  And yet again, my brothers will come, and they are many, and their maws are never filled; and the daughters of the Raven shall bear children in the lodges of the Wolf.  My people are greater than thy people.  It is destiny.  Grant, and all this wealth is thine.’  Moccasins were crunching the snow without.  Mackenzie threw his rifle to cock, and loosened the twin Colts in his belt.

‘Grant, O Chief!’ ‘And yet will my people say no.’  ’Grant, and the wealth is thine.  Then shall I deal with thy people after.’  ’The Wolf will have it so.  I will take his tokens,—­but I would warn him.’  Mackenzie passed over the goods, taking care to clog the rifle’s ejector, and capping the bargain with a kaleidoscopic silk kerchief.  The Shaman and half a dozen young braves entered, but he shouldered boldly among them and passed out.

‘Pack!’ was his laconic greeting to Zarinska as he passed her lodge and hurried to harness his dogs.  A few minutes later he swept into the council at the head of the team, the woman by his side.  He took his place at the upper end of the oblong, by the side of the chief.  To his left, a step to the rear, he stationed Zarinska, her proper place.  Besides, the time was ripe for mischief, and there was need to guard his back.

On either side, the men crouched to the fire, their voices lifted in a folk-chant out of the forgotten past.  Full of strange, halting cadences and haunting recurrences, it was not beautiful.  ‘Fearful’ may inadequately express it.  At the lower end, under the eye of the Shaman, danced half a score of women.  Stern were his reproofs of those who did not wholly abandon themselves to the ecstasy of the rite.  Half hidden in their heavy masses of raven hair, all dishevelled and falling to their waists, they slowly swayed to and fro, their forms rippling to an ever-changing rhythm.

It was a weird scene; an anachronism.  To the south, the nineteenth century was reeling off the few years of its last decade; here flourished man primeval, a shade removed from the prehistoric cave-dweller, forgotten fragment of the Elder World.  The tawny wolf-dogs sat between their skin-clad masters or fought for room, the firelight cast backward from their red eyes and dripping fangs.  The woods, in ghostly shroud, slept on unheeding.

The White Silence, for the moment driven to the rimming forest, seemed ever crushing inward; the stars danced with great leaps, as is their wont in the time of the Great Cold; while the Spirits of the Pole trailed their robes of glory athwart the heavens.