The Ancient shivered, for the cold bit into his stiff limbs, 'You speak as he would wish to hear. You shall have your desire, child. I have said it.'
Half mad, she turned to the open door and called to the dusky-featured ones squatting at the fires,—
'Shout louder, women. Howl until the voice breaks the wind and scatters the ghost lights.[1] Beat your breasts for the sorrow that lies within the camp. Louder, I tell you. Cry louder.'
Antoine laughed hoarsely. 'Ay, shout! He hears you not. Perchance the god has an ear open to our cries.'
The uncouth strain of savage melody swelled fitfully upward in long, suffering cadence, then fell, dying away in shuddering murmurs, to ascend again more loudly, yet more bitterly.
Menotah clenched her small hands and bit the pale lips in the agony of the yet living heart. Then Antoine was at her side, nervously plucking at the blanket that trailed from her shoulder.
'Hearken, daughter. To-morrow we must burn the old Chief, and send him forth upon a long journey. Then there is duty—'
'You may forget,' she broke in coldly, 'but I—'
'Peace, child, let me have speech. You were ever over ready with your words. I am aged, and strength is not mine. I must be satisfied with controlling the striking weapon. So I can only aid by cursing your enemy, and by praying to the God.'
'May your god-hunting be successful,' she said scornfully.