In a word, this poor ignorant savage man was all to seek in the lore of Modern Officialism,—the Whole Art of Assumption was hid from him; by which I mean the mental and spiritual capacity to appropriate to one's own peculiar credit not only the results of another man's courage, luck or capacity, but the actual performance itself. This is the recognised modern practice. The pupil paints or plans, the Master signs the drawings and takes the commission. The devil devils, the Leader wins the case. The C.I.V. storms Bavianskloof, the alderman of his ward receives the war-medal. The Stunt-Sahib, squattering through bottomless mud, organises the new annexation, his chief (down at the base under a punkah) gets the thanks of the Governor-General.
This is how we do it to-day. They did it otherwise in days when The All-Seeing Sun was believed to shine with approval upon the Sayer-of-the-thing-that-is, but to hide Her face from the liar, and the sneak, and the tribesman who stole the axe or the honour of another.
So, poor foolish Pŭl-Yūn gnawed his knuckles for long dark hours, wishing that his wife and he were dead, and, but for a soul of goodness in things evil—a red savage, for one—might e'en have brought his wish to the birth by braining the woman as she slept and subsequently pitching himself off the crag. He dreed his weird for the lee-lang watches of the coldest and blackest night that ever he had known, colder and blacker than those which he had worn through after the breaking of his leg, and before the Master-Girl had found and taken possession of him. He would say in the after years, and did plainly believe, that during that night-watch there were strange visitants to the cave, that two birds flew in out of the darkness and sate with him; the one upon his right hand was a ptarmigan of the scree, winter-white and soft, clucking sweet things, gentle things, about the sleeping girl. The one upon his left hand a raven of the cliff, blacker than the midnight or the shadows of the cave, croaking evil things, showing the poor, hardly-bestead savage all the shame and the ignominy and the laughing scorn of the home-coming to his tribe.
But the longest and blackest of nights wears at last, and the dawn-streak shot aloft and the cold grey peaks took fire and glowed like rosy brands amid the ash of a hearth: then, whilst the dawn brightened and the upper ranges were dyed a colour that had no name to the watcher, nor has gained one yet, for it is not the heart of a rose, nor saffron, nor salmon, nor hath it an earthly counterpart—it was whilst the heavens above him were declaring the Glory of God and the firmament showing His handiwork, that the last struggle took place, the tender clucking mastered the dull croaking! The raven stalked forth to the cave-sill and took wing a-down the gulf of air but, thrice the little snow-white ptarmigan tossed himself aloft into the keen clear morning, and thrice he came circling down again to the cave-sill with stiffly-bent wing and inflated throat singing his song of praise to the Lord who made and warmed him, and then he too was gone and the watcher was alone.
Then Pŭl-Yūn, under the stirring of a new impulse, did a very strange and wonderful thing. Taking the trophy from his own neck he laid it across the throat of the sleeping woman. Her eyes opened, her hand went up, she felt, saw and understood. She arose to her knees, a new and beautiful light was in her eyes, a great and pathetic awe had fallen upon her.
"No—thou shalt not do it!—No!—How shall my husband go home to his people bare-necked whilst his wife walks behind him wearing—these?"
"I—will!" groaned the man.
"You shall not,—you dare not,—you cannot!"
"Be silent!—I say I will!" he groaned more harshly.
Catching up scalps and necklace she cast everything at his feet and bent grovelling before him.