the first time since he had come to the Key of Grief.
"Aké-u! aké-u!" chirped Sé-só-Kah, the robin. But the dead never come again.
"Beloved, sit close to us," whispered the girl, watching his troubled eyes. "Ma-cânte maséca."
But he looked at the babe and its white shadow on the moss, and he only sighed: "Ma-cânte maséca, beloved! Death sits watching us across the sea."
Now for the first time he knew more than the fear of fear; he knew fear. And with fear came grief.
He never before knew that grief lay hidden there in the forest. Now he knew it. Still, that happiness, eternally reborn when two small hands reached up around his neck, when feeble fingers clutched his hand—that happiness that Sé-só-Kah understood, chirping to his brooding mate—that Ta-mdóka knew, licking his dappled fawns—that happiness gave him heart to meet grief calmly, in dreams or in the forest depths, and it helped him to look into the hollow eyes of fear.
He often thought of the camp now; of Bates, his blanket mate; of Dyce, whose wrist he had broken with a blow; of Tully, whose brother he had shot. He even seemed to hear the shot, the sudden report among the hemlocks; again he saw the haze of smoke, he
