But tonight there is nothing dubious about the feast, for the great ox is here, plain to see and to smell. Propped up on two forked stakes a few feet above the blazing logs, and dripping, alas, some of the best of his fat substance into the fire, he presents such a joyous spectacle that it is difficult to believe that he himself takes less pleasure in it than we do. The eyes of Koor shine with a rapture of anticipation. He feels wonderfully well and strong, and as young as the youngest of his grandchildren. And soon the feast is ready and he falls to, quite undeterred by the hungry and envious watchfulness of his family. He and his two counsellors stuff their skins tight, and the sign is given that the hunters may now approach. In a flash they are at work, and with them is a woman. Horror of horrors! She is seized and flung back. At the moment we have other things to do than punish women, or it would go hard with her. But what is this? She is back again, that woman. We are shocked. We cannot believe our eyes. Such devastating insolence is without precedent. We howl our execration and rush at her with our knives and axes waving.
‘Wahoooo!’ cried Flint. ‘I am Hawkon’s woman.’
The young men hesitated. The name of Hawkon held them in check. They growled, but they did not strike.
‘I take meat for my lord Hawkon,’ announced Flint, with superb arrogance. But she watched the men shrewdly, and was careful to take nothing. She waited to be served. In this her instinct chose wisely, for she could not have touched the ox again with impunity.
The elders gathered round. There was a hasty and angry conference.
‘Where is Hawkon himself?’ asked the hunters. And Koor, with gall in his heart, echoed the question.
‘He is still away,’ said Flint. ‘He is doing great deeds.’
Koor turned to the young men. ‘Did he go with you, this Hawkon?’
‘He came hunting with us. He killed with us. Then he left us.’
‘It is often so,’ added another.
‘He is a great hunter,’ said Stare, the youngest among them.
These were his friends and followers. They were united in their testimony.
‘It may be,’ said Hasta tentatively, ‘that he has been bedevilled. I will consult the gods.’
‘Do so,’ ordered Koor.
‘Meanwhile,’ said Stare, ‘we will give the woman what is his by right.’ Without waiting for an answer he hacked a great slice from the animal and put it into Flint’s hand. She had bewitched him. The nearness of her made him mad.
Koor, with a scream, rushed upon the young man, struck at him wildly, and failing of his aim fell to the ground. The young men laughed. Hasta and Nigh were at the Old One’s side. He was on his feet again in an instant. He glared about him, and the laughter died away. One of his woman approached with obsequious love. He grinned at her, snarled, and felled her with a blow. Her outcry pleased him, restored him to good humour. He laughed, and everyone laughed with him, except Flint, who had vanished with her spoil, and the young men, who, resuming their meal, had already forgotten the untimely interruption. Stare alone kept it in mind for a while, but soon, in the pleasure of eating, he too forgot. The vehemence of his appetite subsiding, he squatted down on the ground within the circle of warmth radiating from the great fire, and occupied himself in gnawing at the few tough fragments of bone and gristle that remained to him of his share in the feast. He hardly noticed the noisy departure of his comrades and the chattering arrival at the roast of the lower classes. He sat and gazed at the red embers. He was fed and drowsy and comfortable, and deaf and blind to the riot around him, for in the fire he saw a forest, and in the forest a man hunting. Stare’s eyes became dreamily intent. The man in the forest crouched and crawled, followed by his two dogs. They had wind of the quarry, but the scent was elusive. Stare’s heart thumped violently: he felt the man threatened by some as yet unseen danger, and with that thought a wild beast leaped out of the surrounding shadows, a fantastic wild beast all teeth and talons and blazing eyes. The dogs ran away howling. The man was torn to pieces and eaten. Stare moaned softly, and shifted on his haunches, trying to shake himself free of the dream. He remembered Flint, how she had stood within a hand’s touch of him, her eyes bright, her face dusky in shadow, the round lithe contours of her body burnished and gleaming in the firelight. His mouth widened and his lips curled back, uncovering the teeth. But comfort and warmth drew him back into drowsiness. His eyes were glazing with the glow of the fire. And now he found himself stealing furtively towards the squat of his comrade Hawkon. In the doorway he hesitated, seeing a large black snake coiled up, and apparently asleep, on the top step. At once the snake awoke, and began uncoiling itself. It was a beautiful creature, sleek and shining; and Stare felt a kind of tenderness gush in his heart as he watched it. Tenderness, and reverence as well; for all beauty and all power were expressed in that lithe shape. Yet he raised his axe to strike, victim of conflicting terrors. In some hidden way he felt that the snake was dangerous, so that he dared not let it live; yet to kill it would be a terrible thing, bringing a curse upon him. In a frenzy he struck at it, battered it to death, reduced it to a shapeless nauseating mass, and woke with a shriek.
He thought no more of Flint, who at that moment stepped out of her squat, for the hundredth time that evening, to watch for the return of her lord. And now she was rewarded. He came at last, heralded by the noise of baying, and driving before him, with shouts and menacing antics, the source of the noise, a lusty hind. The animal’s front legs were hobbled together, so that she moved with difficulty and could not run at all. She was all but exhausted with the daylong struggle to escape; her baying, at first ferocious and continuous, was now plaintive and infrequent. She was weary and suffering and insulted; her udder was bursting with milk, and the fawn that ran at her side could not reach the nipples while Hawkon relentlessly urged her on. Hawkon was too triumphant to feel his tiredness, though it was indeed the hardest day’s work he had ever done. The capture of Flint had been child’s play compared with this capture. He had first seen the animal early that morning: one of a herd which he had stalked with infinite skill and cunning, and had had leisure to watch. Most of the herd were placidly browsing, but one or two of the mothers among them were giving suck to their young, and at sight of that the queerest notion, quite unforeseen, flashed into Hawkon’s head. He could not for the life of him have told where it came from. And of that idea, instantly translated into action, this triumphant homecoming was the sequel. The hind could not learn submission, any more than her fawn could learn the wisdom of leaving its mother. The chase, the struggle, the capture and recapture, the binding and dragging and goading—it had been a conflict of epic dimensions. But Hawkon was as patient as nature. The whole of him was in his task, and he had not noticed the passing of time. And now he was back, with the dogs dragging themselves limply at his heels.