"We not mak' him—that! Oh, no!"
Julyman's tone was hushed and fearful. He moved close to the white man in urgent appeal.
"Boss Steve not mak' him. No. Julyman all come dead. Julyman not mush on. Oh, no."
"Julyman'll do just as 'Boss' Steve says."
Steve had dragged his gaze from the wonder that held it. He was coldly regarding the haunted eyes of a man he knew to be fearless enough as men understand fearlessness.
This was no time for sympathy or weakness. It was his purpose to penetrate to that blazing heart, as nearly as the object of his journey demanded. He was in no mood to listen patiently to words inspired by benighted superstition.
"Him—Unaga!" Julyman protested, his outstretched arm shaking. "No—mak' him? Yes?"
"We mak' this!"
It was Oolak who answered him. He spoke with a preliminary, contemptuous grunt. He, too, was pointing. But he was pointing at that which lay near at hand. He stood leaning his crippled body on his gee-pole, and gazing down at that which lay immediately in front of them, groaning and grumbling like some suffering living creature.
Steve followed the direction of the outstretched arm. He had been absorbed in the distance. All else had been forgotten. He found himself gazing down upon what appeared to be a cascading sea of phosphorescent light. He recognized it instantly, and the fiery heart of Unaga was forgotten.