For the chieftainess whose death-song arose fitfully and faintly above the roar of the flame, had been more than a great warrior; the dead chief had been that, a giant in fight, terrible at the axe, with a rush and a shout like the charge and the roar of a rutting stag. But, she! how put it?—at once desperate and cautious, patient as a waiting heron, sudden in attack as the same bird when its uncoiled neck drives home the dagger-beak! Other leaders were pricked to hot decisions by the approach of unsuspected peril, she, for so long their pride and marvel, had planned her battle ere the tassels hung upon the hazel and won it after the nuts were ripe—yea, and ever upon ground of her own choice. Did the Lynxes pounce at dawn, or the Sitting Bulls await her coming, 'twas all one, the event fell as she had foretold. (Wail, ye women!) Other tribes swarmed disorderly to the onset and closed with clamour and confusion; she had taught her braves the true method of advancing silently and in line; she too, had drilled them (at what pains and with what sternness!) to a battle formation already described (subsequently re-invented by a later savage genius—Tchaka), compelling her centre to mark time until her convergent horns had enveloped the headlong foe and the killing began to a general shout of "O Moon!" Each of her battles had been an antedated Cannæ. Tribe after tribe (names now to the young draft), scornful of woman-led warriors, had charged cheering into her traps and perished, for no quarter was given in the Stone Age, nor had the Master-Girl a use for a living enemy. (Groan, ye men, nor spare your tears for once, though the children and women see that your cheeks are wet!)
The groaning of the braves deepened, the keening of the women grew shrill, but from the core of the heat where the naked wigwam-poles, stripped now of their gear, were blazing above the pyre like torches, came never a sound.
All through that afternoon the tribe watched and waited. The sun sank to her couch blood-red, and laying her broad face upon a hill-shoulder, forbore, as minded to see the last of her priest. The fire was burning itself out, but was still too hot to approach. A circular rampart of glistering whiteness lay there with the air shuddering above it. Some of the ash retained the shape of bavin and faggot, more was flaky and formless as snow, but pulsing through it came rosy flushes from the glowing heart within. But, ah, in the centre-space where the wigwam had stood, the Great Father and the Great Mother of their people, they, who but two days since had stood for Authority, Strength, Courage and Wisdom, were now white calcined bones!
It was then that a wonder and a portent appeared, for the tribe raising scorched faces from the dreary place of burning, beheld one half of the sky steeped as it were with blood, and the Sun, their Goddess, wading therein, whilst near to her, and within that ensanguined field stood the first presence of the young Moon, a bow of palest green.
Then did the eldest son of the dead arise, and with solemnly-uplifted hands salute the Twin Totems. "Ye are there," he cried. "We hail ye both, Heavenly Watchers over your children!"
Darkness enwrapped him, comfortably soft, thick and warm. He neither knew nor cared how long he had lain in it, nor if at any time he had ever known other conditions. He was just a motionless atom, or congeries of atoms, without ambitions, cares or resentments; yet withal, a modicum of self-knowledge.
For instance, certain black marks outstanding from a dull luminosity over against him connoted definite ideas of origin and locality. IGHTHAM FISSURES, such were the marks, thick, heavy, distinct lettering in brownish black, output of a small hand-press used for printing museum labels. (Oh, it was all known to him, the oddness consisted in his knowing so much and no more, nor feeling any especial curiosity for information unexpressed by these symbols.)