“She has a bad habit, Akoon,” he said, seating her at Akoon’s feet.  “As she has run away from me in the past, in the days to come she may run away from you.  But there is no need to fear that she will ever run away, Akoon.  I shall see to that.  Never will she run away from you—­this is the word of Porportuk.  She has great wit.  I know, for often has it bitten into me.  Yet am I minded myself to give my wit play for once.  And by my wit will I secure her to you, Akoon.”

Stooping, Porportuk crossed El-Soo’s feet, so that the instep of one lay over that of the other; and then, before his purpose could be divined, he discharged his rifle through the two ankles.  As Akoon struggled to rise against the weight of the young men, there was heard the crunch of the broken bone rebroken.

“It is just,” said the old men, one to another.

El-Soo made no sound.  She sat and looked at her shattered ankles, on which she would never walk again.

“My legs are strong, El-Soo,” Akoon said.  “But never will they bear me away from you.”

El-Soo looked at him, and for the first time in all the time he had known her, Akoon saw tears in her eyes.

“Your eyes are like deer’s eyes, El-Soo,” he said.

“Is it just?” Porportuk asked, and grinned from the edge of the smoke as he prepared to depart.

“It is just,” the old men said.  And they sat on in the silence.