Chingatok was tender-hearted. He said nothing, but, as usual, he thought much, as he gazed in a contemplative manner at his oily parent, and there is no saying to what lengths of self-sacrifice he would have gone if he had not been aroused, and his thoughts scattered to the winds, by a yell so tremendous that it might well have petrified him on the spot. But it did nothing of the kind. It only caused him to drop on his knees, dart through the tunnel like an eel, spring into the open air like an electrified rabbit from its burrow, and stand up with a look of blazing interrogation on his huge countenance.
The cry had been uttered by his bosom friend and former playmate Oolichuk, who came running towards him with frantic gesticulations.
“The Kablunets!” he gasped, “the white-faces have come!—on a floating island!—alive!—smoking!—it is all true!”
“Where?” demanded our giant, whose face blazed up at once.
“There!” cried Oolichuk, pointing seaward towards the ice-hummocks with both hands, and glaring up at his friend.
Without another word Chingatok ran off in the direction pointed out, followed hotly by his friend.
Oolichuk was a large and powerful man, but, his legs were remarkably short. His pace, compared with that of Chingatok, was as that of a sparrow to an ostrich. Nevertheless he kept up, for he was agile and vigorous.
“Have you seen them—have you spoken?” asked the giant, abruptly.
“Yes, all the tribe was there.”
“No one killed?”