“And one evening my time came. Black Dog was in the valley by a frozen stream, and he fell upon his face, sending forth a thin cry as he fell—thin and ice-like. He did not get up. He lay very still. “I ran down to where he lay—and I laughed, laughed, laughed. I heard him groan. I rolled him over on his back and looked upon his face. “I wish I had not looked upon his face! “He opened his eyes and they were very dim and sunken. His face was sharp. I sat down beside him. I said, ‘Now die, and I will sing about it.’ “Then his face changed. It became a squaw’s face—_and it had the look_!—a look that was sad and weak and frightened and begging for pity. And it seemed to me that it was not the face of Black Dog any more. _It had the look!_ I had seen it in the face of Paezha by the spring! “Now since I have many winters behind me, I wonder if it was not a coward’s face; but then it was not so. I grew soft. There was a great springtime in my breast. The ice was breaking up. I wrapped my blankets about him. I gave him meat. He stared at me and ate like a wolf. I spoke soft words. I made a fire from the brush that was on the frozen stream. I warmed him and he grew stronger. All night I watched him and in the morning I said: ‘Take my bow and arrows, Black Dog; I wish to die. Go on and live.’ For I had lost the wish to kill; I only wished to die. And he said no word; but his eyes were changed. “I staggered away on the back trail. I had no meat, I had no blankets, I had no weapons. I meant to die. “But I did not die. When I lay down at night, worn-out and half frozen, someone wrapped blankets about me and built a fire by me. In the mornings I found food beside me. And so it was for many sleeps until at last I came to the village of my people, broken, caring for nothing. And I was thin, my face was sharp, my eyes were sunken, my step was slow. “And the people looked upon me with wonder, saying: ‘Half-a-Day has come back from killing Black Dog.’ “But the truth was different.” * * * * * When Half-a-Day had finished, he stared long into the fire without speaking. “Do you think Black Dog was all a coward?” I asked at length. “Perhaps he only loved too much.” “I do not know,” said Half-a-Day; “I only know sometimes I wish I had not looked upon his face.” III FEATHER FOR FEATHER TUM-UM-UM, tum-um-um, went the drums beaten by the hands of the old men—too old for wars, but now grown momentarily youthful with the victory of the young men who were returning from battle. Tum-um-um, tum-um-um! So sang the drums—great, glad buckskin drums, exultant beneath the staccato blows of the old men’s drumsticks. Tum-um-um, tum-um-um! Now the women, dressed in their gayest garments of dyed buckskin, radiant in beads, with the spirit of song upon their painted faces, came forth in a long file from a lodge and approached the centre of the open space about which were grouped the mud lodges of the village.