“No?” exclaimed Raventik in surprise. You see, he had never in his life been wounded or ill, and could not understand the possibility of refusing food, except when too full of it. Being a sympathetic soul, however, he pressed it on the invalids, but received replies so very discouraging that he was induced to forbear.
Old Uleeta turned out to be a more intelligent, it not more kindly, nurse. After she had eaten her supper and succeeded in bolting the last bite that had refused to go down when she could eat no more, she came forward with a bladder full of water, and some rabbit-skins, for the purpose of dressing the wounds.
“Gently, mother,” said Gartok with a suppressed groan, “you lay hold of me as if I were a seal.”
“You are quite as self-willed, my son,” replied the old woman. “If you had not gone out to fight you would not have come back with a hole in your leg.”
“If I had not come into the world I should not have been here to trouble you, mother.”
“There’s truth in that, my son,” returned the woman, as if the idea were new to her.
At this Ondikik groaned—whether at the contemptibly obvious character of the idea, or at ideas in general, or in consequence of pain, we cannot tell.
“You said, mother, that Cheenbuk gave them a good deal of trouble?”
“Ay, he gave them sore hearts and sore bodies.”
“They deserved it! what right had they to come with their fire-spouters to attack us?”
“What right had you to go without your fire-spouters to attack them?” demanded old Uleeta, somewhat maliciously.
Gartok, who was destitute neither of intelligence nor of humour, laughed, but the laugh slid into a most emphatic “hoi!” as his mother gave the leg a wrench.
“Softly, mother, softly! Treat me as you did when I was so big,” he exclaimed, indicating about one foot six between his hands.
The old woman chuckled, or rather “hee! hee’d!” a little and continued:
“Yes, Cheenbuk fought like a bear. We could not see him, for they were all on top of him at once, but hi! how he made them heave! I wonder they did not use their knives.”
“They felt sure they had him,” said her son, “they wanted to drive him to their huts and kill him slowly to amuse their women.”
This was such a horrible idea that the old woman became unusually grave.
“These Fire-spouters are worse than white bears,” she said, “for these never torture other beasts, though they often kill them.”
“True, mother. Now I wish you would go away and leave my leg alone. Ondikik there needs your help. Go to him and hurt him as much as you please. I won’t grumble.”
“You were always a thankless boy—ever since you could speak,” replied the dame, reproachfully.
“Did you ever hear of any one being thankless before he could speak?—hoi! mother, you’ve tied it too tight. Slack it a little.”
After complying with her son’s request, old Uleeta went to Ondikik, to whom, however, she could render but little service, owing to the nature of his wound. Then she paid a visit to Rinka, whose injuries, however, proved to be more alarming than severe; after which she joined the rest of the tribe at supper.
While the Eskimos were thus proceeding to their home among the islands of the Arctic sea, the captors of Cheenbuk were paddling up-stream to the lands of the Dogrib Indians.
At first the stout Eskimo meditated an attempt to escape. Indeed he made one vigorous effort when they were leading him through the bush with his hands tied behind him. Just as they came to the place where the canoes were lying, the thought of home, and of his probable fate as a prisoner, pressed so heavily on him that he suddenly became furious, tripped up the man beside him with his foot, kicked over the one behind him with his heel, ran his head like a battering-ram into the back of the man in front of him, and then strove to burst his bonds with a succession of mighty wriggles, but, not being quite equal to Samson, he failed, and on seeing that two savages stood over him with drawn scalping-knives, while Magadar put the muzzle of a gun to his head, he deemed it wise to give in and uttered the exclamation “hoi!” with the air of one who feels that his game is played out. He marched forward after that in submissive silence.
On reaching the canoes, however, a fresh burst of indignation assailed him, and for a moment he meditated sending his foot through the bottom of the frail craft which was to carry him into exile, but on second thoughts he decided to delay the performance of that violent measure till they were well out in the middle of the current, when there would be the chance of drowning some of his foes as well as himself. By the time the desired position was reached, however, his spirit had calmed down a little and his philosophic mind—to say nothing of his heart—had begun to suggest the uselessness of gratifying his feelings by a revenge which he probably could not enjoy much while in the process of drowning, and, doubtless, could not enjoy at all after he was drowned.
Thus it came to pass that our hero restrained his passions, and, in process of time, found himself a prisoner in one of the lodges of the Dogrib Indians.
Chapter Eight.
In the Hour of Need
On reaching the Indian village Cheenbuk was firmly bound to a tree a little way outside the camp, and left there to his meditations, while his captors went to the old chief’s tent to hold a council.
Meanwhile the women and children went to look at the captive. Among them were Adolay and her mother. The moment the former set eyes on Cheenbuk she recognised him as the youth who had rescued her mother from drowning the previous year.
“Mother,” she whispered, drawing her parent aside, “that is him! Don’t you remember him?”
“I think it is,” returned Isquay, gazing steadily at the Eskimo, who looked at the crowd which surrounded him with a gaze of supreme contempt, though he did not by any means feel contemptuous.
“Come, mother,” said Adolay, with sudden earnestness, “he has not recognised us in the crowd. I must go and find out what the braves are palavering.”
As she spoke she drew her mother towards their own lodge, and there left her while she hurried on to the council-tent. In the shelter of some bushes she crept as near to it as possible.
There was no difficulty in making out what was said, for the warriors made no secret of their intentions, and spoke in loud tones.
“He shall die,” was the remark of Alizay just as the girl came within hearing, “he has killed one of our braves.”
“Ay, and he shall die by torture,” said Magadar, who was a relation of the man that had been slain.
“Ho! ho!” exclaimed most of the warriors in tones of approval, but there were a few among them who were silent. They leaned to mercy’s side.
“Better to spare his life and make a slave of him,” said one of these, “we can keep him always tied like a bad dog till we need him; then we can loose his legs and make him drag our sledges.”
“The brave who has spoken is young,” said the old chief. “He does not know much about men. Will not the Eskimo watch for his chance, get free from his bonds, kill some of us when we are off our guard, and, perhaps, escape?”
“That is so. He must be killed,” remarked Magadar, with a glance of scorn at the merciful youth, “and the sooner the better.”
“Let us do it at once,” said one of the blood-thirsty.
On hearing this the heart of Adolay beat anxiously, and for a few moments she was undecided whether to run to the tree to which the Eskimo was bound and set him free by cutting his bonds, or enter the council-tent, tell the story of his having saved her mother’s life, and plead that the youth’s might be spared. Both courses, she knew, were about equally desperate. If she were to follow the first, all the children would see her do it, and