Neju bent to the Chieftain. The old one moaned.
They constructed a crude shelter for the Chieftain back of the clearing, fast in the forest, where the old one could not see the scene of destruction. All that night, almost fearfully, the villagers crouched near him. When the moon first dropped its rays across his face they all tensed, hushed, waiting, and when his breathing continued they sighed in relief (for he would live another day: a Chieftain's spirit always goes up the first moon path to the stars, or else it will not leave until the moon path comes again).
The night was long and cold, and toward dawn, they drew in upon each other and the fire for warmth.
When the sun was an hour high and the hasty meal was over, the young hunters surrounded Neju, looking to him for leadership since the last of the royal line lay in a coma.
"You will be our leader until our Chieftain Father is well again," they told Neju, one after another.
Neju sat for a long time in thought and silence. At last he said, almost sadly, "I will serve until the old Father is well again."
There was a relieved sigh from the listeners.
Again there was a long silence.
Neju toyed with a new grass shoot, rubbing it between his fingers. He rumbled deep in his chest to break the silence. "We must move further into the forest. Wait for the god-men and the demons to go away. We cannot fight."