"The sun hath gone," murmured Ootah. "The long night comes. Ootah heard thy cry and has come to care for thee, Annadoah."
His voice was a caress. His face sank dangerously near the face of the girl. She panted into full consciousness and struggled to free herself. Ootah helped her to her feet.
"The winter comes . . . and famine," muttered Annadoah, hopelessly. She pointed to the gaunt, hollow-eyed shadow, empurpled-robed, against the frozen cliffs. "My heart is cold—I am resigned to death."
"But I have come to give furs for thy couch," murmured Ootah, a beseeching look in his eyes. "Thou wilt need shelter—I shall build thee an igloo. Thou wilt need food—I shall share all that I have with thee and seek more. Thou wilt need oil for heat. I shall get this for thee."
Annadoah made a passionate gesture. A curious perverse resentment for the youth's insistent devotion rose in her heart.
"Nay," she said, warding him away. "My shadow yearns only to the south . . . the far, far south."
"Thy soul yearns to the south—forsooth, will I all the more cherish thee. Thou art frail, and the teeth of ookiah (winter) are sharp."
"The teeth of ookiah are not so sharp as the teeth in my heart," sobbed Annadoah.
Ootah felt a great pity for her—a pity and tenderness greater than his jealousy.
"But I shall teach thee to forget, Annadoah."