“Of course not,” said the other with a gesture of impatience.
“Grabantak, you had a father.”
“Yes,” said the chief, with solemn respect.
“And he had a father.”
“True.”
“And he, too, had a father.”
“Well, I suppose he had.”
“Of course he had. All fathers have had fathers back and back into the mysterious Longtime. If not, where did our tales and stories come from? There are many stories told by fathers to sons, and fathers to sons, till they have all come down to us, and what do these stories teach us? that all fighting is bad, except what must be. Even what must be is bad—only, it is better than some things that are worse. Loss of life, loss of country, loss of freedom to hunt, and eat, and sleep, are worse. We must fight for these—but to fight for a bare rock, for a name, for a coast, for a fancy, it is foolish! and when you have got your rock, and recovered your name, and pleased your fancy, do the brave young men that are dead return? Do the maidens that weep rejoice? Do the mothers that pine revive? Of what use have been all the wars of Flatland from Longtime till now? Can you restore the mountain-heaps of kayaks, and oomiaks, and spears, and walrus-lines, from the smoke into which they vanished! Can you recall the great rivers of whale-oil from the sea into which they have been poured, or the blood of men from the earth that swallowed it? Is not war always loss, loss, loss, and never gain? Why cannot we live at peace with those who will, and fight only with those who insist on war.”
“Go, Teyma, stop your mouth with blubber,” said the chief, rising; “I am weary of you. I tell you, Amalatok shall die; Puiröe shall be mine. The tribes shall all learn to tremble at the name of Grabantak and to respect the men of Flatland.”
“Ay, and to love them too, I suppose,” added Teyma with a facetious sneer.