Black anger ate at his heart; but he gave no sign, threading his way among the camp-fires until he came to one where sat an old man. A young woman was kneading with skilful fingers the tired muscles of his legs. He raised a sightless face and listened intently as Negore’s foot crackled a dead twig.
“Who comes?” he queried in a thin, tremulous voice.
“Negore,” said the young woman, scarcely looking up from her task.
Negore’s face was expressionless. For many minutes he stood and waited. The old man’s head had sunk back upon his chest. The young woman pressed and prodded the wasted muscles, resting her body on her knees, her bowed head hidden as in a cloud by her black wealth of hair. Negore watched the supple body, bending at the hips as a lynx’s body might bend, pliant as a young willow stalk, and, withal, strong as only youth is strong. He looked, and was aware of a great yearning, akin in sensation to physical hunger. At last he spoke, saying:
“Is there no greeting for Negore, who has been long gone and has but now come back?”
She looked up at him with cold eyes. The old man chuckled to himself after the manner of the old.
“Thou art my woman, Oona,” Negore said, his tones dominant and conveying a hint of menace.
She arose with catlike ease and suddenness to her full height, her eyes flashing, her nostrils quivering like a deer’s.
“I was thy woman to be, Negore, but thou art a coward; the daughter of Old Kinoos mates not with a coward!”
She silenced him with an imperious gesture as he strove to speak.