“Ogga, we go to the Ice Spirit. We go together. The Fire-Spirit kills us. But there is no more hurt now. We are happy.” The voice was still. And Ogga, denied of the last lingering impulses of effort and recovery, yet by some interior remnant of volition, leaned forward upon Lhatto. Their lips touched.
The atmospheric change had come. A few drops of water grudgingly squeezed from the leaden sky fell upon them. Lhatto held up her hand and in its wasted palm the falling drops ran together in a little circle. Death was upon her, the agony of the creeping fires of thirst was in her throat; Ogga had fallen backward, and upon him the silence of Hereafter rested, but the woman, strong with the superhuman strength of her great love, pressed the wet palm upon his lips, and died.
So, in the far backward of time, as the Ice Age departed, the Man and the Woman began the endless Poem of Life, endlessly beautiful, endlessly sad.
THE LITERARY COLLECTOR PRESS
GREENWICH, CONNECTICUT
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Archaic spelling that may have been in use at the time of publication has been preserved.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.