The shadows of the winter's day lengthened. The imprisoned man had given up hope. His wife did not come, would never come to him again. The husband's heart grew heavy with the sorrow which settles down upon the watcher whose anxieties are over at last, whom the worst has befallen.
For himself he did not particularly care. He had no fear that she would give him away under torture. Dêh-Yān would be staunch to the last, of that he was assured, doing her justice now that she was gone. He had stores enough for another four months, and long before that would be as sound a man again as ever he was. But this cave would be a hateful place without his squaw. Nor could he face the thought of returning to his tribe without her, empty-handed, with nothing to show for his winter-hunting. This was a humiliation not to be borne, the sneering enquiries of his cousin and rival, the wonder of his fellow-braves, the eyes of the women. No wife and no scalps?
Whether besieged or no, Pŭl-Yūn would stay back and avenge her. What was she worth in Little Moon lives? He held up all his ten fingers and solemnly gloomed upon them. Ten should die for her—if he lived—not less. So the night wore.
Then a stick cracked below in the darkness, and her signal, the shrill whistle of the marmot, rang out. His heart leaped, he gripped his axe and a stone for a down-throw; she would be hard-pressed to a surety, but why did the fool-creature make such a noise?—'Twas madness!
He hirpled to the lip of the rock-platform and craned over, peering down into the impenetrable dusk below, ready for action, listening, eye, ear and nostril at stretch for news of the whereabouts of his foes. But the only sounds were the scrape of his squaw's moccasins and her hardly-taken breaths. How heavily she climbed!—Was she wounded? She did not reply to his low-spoken questions. She was coming nearer, nearer; his eyes, accustomed to seeing in the worst of lights, could make out her bare unbandaged head and shoulders, her arms too, there seemed little the matter with what of her he could see. Her kaross was gone, he had seen it go, she was still encumbered with that silly bag of arrows, and the big bow-drill hampered her climbing. Drawing her breath in gasps, she reached the sill of the cave, crawled in and sate mutely panting, her eyes shining glassily in her head. She seemed unharmed; she was unharmed; it was wonderful—amazing! Now, what had happened? Why could not the creature speak? "What of the chase, Dêh-Yān?"
Still mute and with an open mouth drawn up from the teeth with the muscular contraction of extreme toil, she unrolled and laid out before him in the dusk—One—Two—Three bloody scalps each with the top-knot of a brave,—raw, fresh-stripped.
Pŭl-Yūn caught his breath in with a harsh cry: "Wah!—What?—How?—Where?" but the woman squatting over her spoils did not answer. She had reached her farthest. She swayed, she leaned, she collapsed, she tumbled forward almost into his arms.
The man drew the bear-skin over her as she lay shuddering, whimpering. He marvelled to hear her long-drawn sobbing in the darkness. This was new indeed; never had he known her to weep. Presently she relaxed and slept. He watched her slumber, gnawing a tortured lip, incredulous and convinced, exulting and humiliated, adoring and furiously jealous by fits. What would come out of this? 'Twas glorious! But 'twas absurdly disconcerting! Wonderful, no doubt, past whooping, but not to be put up with!
At midnight she awoke with a start, sighed once, rubbed her eyes, put back her hair, pulled herself together and was a new creature. Ashamed of her weakness, she silently got to her feet, made up the fire and cooked food for both.
Pŭl-Yūn watched her, would give her time, when she had eaten forth it came.