Close to where the river Sheroka issues from a rocky gorge into a broad valley, there is a wooden column, ornamented with carving. At this column, which stands in the middle of a small meadow near the water, the nomad Tungus assemble annually from the neighbouring mountains. Hundreds of reindeer in the midst of a crowd of human beings make a charming picture as the caravans travel thither together. When the merry crowd enters the valley the splash of the river is lost in a ringing echo of voices.

Their camp-fires, scattered in a semi-circle in the wood at the foot of the mountains, twinkle against the background of eternal shadows like a shining girdle, in which the delicate spring green and the grey diaphanous tissue of stems and branches are interlaced.

This is the most agreeable season in the mountain valleys; gnats and other insects have not yet begun to be worrying, the air is delightfully cool, everything is unfolding and blossoming, and only the winter snow on the summits of the mountains lies untouched by the warmth. The pale, transparent sky above the snow neither darkens at night nor glitters with stars, but shines with the Northern light which joins the sunset of the fading day to the sunrise of the next.

The people remain near the column in the clearing for a whole week. The family elders, grave old men, meet here and discuss their common needs, collect the tribute of hides, and settle all important matters.

But the young men use the time for love and merry-making, dancing and races. The valley rings with laughter and shouting, with the strokes of the hatchet and the echoes of songs; the ground trembles under the cloven hoofs of the furiously driven reindeer; the leather lassoes swish through the air as they are thrown on to the antlers of the animals destined for slaughter. And where work is most active, where life is at its fullest the jingle of the women's glass and silver ornaments is sure to be heard.

So it has been time out of mind. But one year it happened differently.

Numbers of people assembled in the valley, as usual, but the noise of their talking did not drown the roar of the river. The youths did not dance at the meeting place, no reindeer were to be seen racing. There was no laughter, no singing.

Nor did the counsels take place in common. The men assembled in small groups in separate tents, with a dull look on their sad faces. They talked without animation; jokes and laughter, so beloved by the Tungus, were checked by a general sense of depression, and only rarely indulged in.

However, they did not disperse, but waited impatiently for the coming of old Seltichan, without whom they would not have dared to have settled any important matters. But the old man did not arrive.

'The old man doesn't come, he doesn't come,—and he won't come,' muttered one of the group, sitting among his companions, who were circling round the fire. He was a stout man of possibly fifty years of age, unlike a Tungus, and dressed like a Yakut, with a silver Yakut belt. He had the puffed-up air of a rich man knowing his own importance. 'Who cares to visit the dying?' he added, sulkily.

'You didn't try to escape your fate,' gloomily answered a poorly dressed old man, as tawny as copper, and as wrinkled as moss, who was sitting on the opposite side of the fire.

'That is true!' a third repeated. 'You don't try to escape, you don't hide. Didn't I run away, didn't I hide? And what came of it?' and, with emotion, he began for the hundredth time to relate the story of his misfortune. Each time it was received with equal attention.

'When the news of the disaster came I was on the summit of Bur-Janga, and was just getting ready to go down; but I hesitated, and delayed my start. For a long while the God had mercy on me;—I know that!—till one night I awoke terrified, with a beating heart. I listened:—I heard what seemed like a shot, and loud calling. I drew my head from under the cover, and again I seemed to hear a noise in the wood, like distant shooting. The dogs whined and howled, as if they had noticed a bear. I went out of the tent, and looked. The moon was shining, and an immense shadow passed into the wood from the bottom of the valley, avoiding the hills. The dogs fell at my feet, and I covered my eyes with my hand, unable to look. My heart beat in my breast like a frightened bird, my feet were rigid with terror.'

'O-oh!' echoed the sighs of the listeners.

'And what happened next?—A hundred reindeer fell dead at once. Not waiting for dawn, we pushed on that very night. We fled, not halting anywhere, but our herds became smaller every day. So I divided them, and sent them in three directions; yet in a few days' time my son,—and later my daughter,—returned empty-handed. Then I made up my mind to flee to the end of the world, where no one ever goes. But is there a place anywhere, to which no one has ever yet been? I took nothing belonging to the dying animals, not even the halters; I left everything. And when the leader fell I did not even take the figured band from his head, which had come down to me from my ancestors.'

'A-ah!' responded the listeners.

'The women burst into tears at that,' he continued, encouraged by the sympathy of his audience, 'but the Russian traders had advised it. "Take none of His offering, Brother; He seeks out His own, and will find it everywhere!" So I obeyed; I left it and fled. At last I had gone so far that I grew frightened myself:—may be no one had ever been there before me. There were no trees anywhere, not even bushes,—only the same rocks and snow everywhere,—and the gale. It was impossible to pitch a tent for want of poles, and I was afraid to send to the wood for them, so we dug out a hole in the snow under a rock, and settled ourselves in it. We were comfortable there, and began to be cheerful once more, for the plague ceased. One day passed,—a second,—and none of the reindeer had sickened. We waited in the silence of fear; we not only avoided talking, but even thinking about "Him," for possibly "He" too would forget us! We did not allow the reindeer out of our sight, and we went where they led us, spending the night among the herd, like the Chukchee. In this way some time passed. My wife was already beginning to be cheerful, and I myself thought that all would be well, and we should grow richer after a while. But again I suddenly awoke in the night, torn by anxiety. The moon was shining as on that other night, and everything was bright and still all round. The tired reindeer were sleeping in a heap in the snow. But a shadow hung in the air, falling independently, and not from a rock.'

Again the listeners responded with sighs.

'I slipped out of bed cautiously, took my gun, and without dressing, began to steal, naked, towards "Him." "He" did not notice me, for "He" was standing on a rock, taking stock of what I possessed. But when I made a slight sound as I was hurriedly taking aim, "He" turned and fixed "His" great burning eyes on me. I shot between them. What happened afterwards I do not know. Did "He" hit me, or cover me with "His" breath? I have no idea.

'Something like a storm passed over me; but when I regained consciousness I had not a single reindeer left;—Tumara was a poor man.'

The speaker was silent, waved his hand, and starting to his feet, stood with bowed head, and an expression of pain on his face. The young men in the audience also stood up; but the old men did not stir from their seats, and fixing their eyes on the speaker, waited for the continuation of the story.

'Well,—and then—?'

Tumara raised his head and began to speak, but at that moment his look fell beyond the edge of the circle and became absorbed in the distance, his face showed astonishment, his lips trembled, and tears rolled from his eyes. Everyone at once turned in the same direction.

At some distance from the fire, and leaning against the back of a reindeer as white as milk, stood a grey-headed Tungus in the old-time national costume. Behind him, holding a riding-reindeer by the bridle, was a young boy resembling him in face and dress.

'Seltichan!' they all cried, 'you have come at last,—you!—our father! We thought that you had forsaken us, who are dying! What news? What have you heard and seen beyond the mountains? How fare the people of Memel? Are they living still? Or are they, perhaps, also drawing their last breath, as we are? And you, our leader, what do you mean to do? Have you come alone, or with all your people? Are you going back to the mountains? Or are you going to the coast?' The questions came pouring out.

Giving the bridle to his son, Seltichan joined the circle round the fire, and greeted everyone singly by a shake of the hand. He sat down beside the Kniaz,[20] dressed like a Yakut, who hastily made room for him. Then, pulling a small Chinese pipe out of his tobacco-pouch, he filled it slowly. The group became silent, and sat down again.

'It is now two months since the plague reached its height,' the old man answered in a calm, grave voice. 'The people of Memel have dispersed terrified and fled to the coast, but by different ways, in order to avoid the dangerous place. You need not expect them here. But my camp will arrive this evening.'

'Ah! Seltichan, who would ever doubt that you would come? You are wise, you are daring, you, we know, fear nothing!' the Kniaz cried, stretching out his hand towards his neighbour's lighted pipe.

A shadow stole over the old man's face.

'No one can escape his fate,' he replied coldly.

'But you were born to happiness, Seltichan! Does not the God love you? When whole herds were dying everywhere, did you not merely lose a young calf?'

Again a cloud came over the old man's face.

'He loves me because I keep the ancient customs. My welfare does not spring from human tears, but the mountains, the rocks, the woods, and water bring it me,' the old man remarked drily.

His hearers caught up his words.

'Yes, indeed! Your hand was open; you supported your people in the day of disaster, and shared in it.'

'Yet who can help more easily than you?' said the Kniaz. 'What can I give, for example, I, who have only goods for sale, and debts? Should I distribute my debts in these hard times? It is true, I have nothing against that! Yet I too am a Tungus;—what would anyone gain from my accursed debts? They don't breed reindeer,' he ended, laughing.

'Yes, indeed! We should die without you, Seltichan! Who supports us? Whose herds are larger than yours? Who has a better heart? What family is more distinguished and richer? Whose sons are more skilled shots, and finer huntsmen? Whose daughters, when grown-up, most attract our youths? Are you not the first among us,—you who neither suffer nor fear, never lie, and never deceive as we do, and bow to your fate? You, Seltichan! And to whom shall we go, if you will not have pity on us?' came from all sides.

'The God knows, I will share with you! That is why I am here!' the old man answered, touched.

'Tumara! Tumara!' the Kniaz cried, seeking the story-teller, 'finish your tale. You will see, Seltichan, what happens later.'

Silence prevailed again. Tumara, who was sitting in the front row of the councillors, stroked his right ear with his right hand, and began after a moment's pause.

'I have told you already how, having lost the reindeer, we took our goods and our children on our backs, and returned to the valley. Our children became ill, and soon died from eating bad meat, which made us weak too. But what can a hunter find in the wilderness at a time like that?'

'What, indeed?'

'Very soon we were entirely without food. We had eaten all our stores, leather bags, and old thongs, and the women's greasy scarves; there was nothing left that could have a taste. Do not we, who encamp on the mountains, know what hunger is? And was Tumara wanting in courage?'

'He was famous for it!' the listeners asseverated.

'But it happened thus, nevertheless;—we had been many, and only four were left,—I, my wife, my son, and daughter. We went on, always longing for the sight of human faces. We halted at all the known spots and ancient resting places, and everywhere found the cold ashes of fires:—the people had fled, scattered by the danger. And our wanderings took us ever further from them.

'But when, on coming down from the mountains, we saw bare tent poles, all our courage forsook us. Notwithstanding, we went on further and never stopped searching, for it is not an easy thing for a man to lie down and die in the snow without giving any account of himself.—We scraped the rubbish, and turned over the wet ashes of the cold fires to find a morsel of food, stilling our hunger by knawing the bones left by the dogs. At last it came to this that we could not look at our own children, full of flesh and warm blood, without trembling. "Tumara, let the girl die to save her parents," my wife said at last. I was sorry for the child. She looked at us, not understanding. "Tala," her mother said to her, "according to the old custom, when the family is in danger, the daughter dies first."'

'That is so!' the listeners affirmed.

'"Go, Tala," she said, "wash in the snow, and look at the world for the last time." The girl understood and tried to escape, but I held her; so she cried and begged: "Wait till the evening, perhaps the God will send something, I want to live; I am afraid!" So we waited and watched. The girl was continually going out of the tent, and looking towards the wood, shading her eyes with her hand. But each time her mother was behind her, hiding a knife in her sleeve. It had already begun to be dusk. The girl went out oftener and each time stood longer on the threshold, while I lay in the shade of the tent, waiting to see what would happen. Suddenly I heard a cry outside, which froze my heart. My wife came in with the knife in her hand, staggering like a drunken woman. "Have you killed her?" "No, the God has had pity," she said, "there is a large elk running into the wood close by here!" I jumped up and ran out of the door with my son. The girl was sitting by the tent with outstretched arms, while not far off in the wood stood a large elk.—'

'Stood a large elk!' the listeners repeated.

'Is it difficult for a hunter to kill an animal grazing? But my limbs were dried up with hunger, my muscles weak with pain, and as I stole towards my prey my hands shook so much I could scarcely keep the gun in my hands. But when the animal had been hit, and tried to escape into the bushes, we dashed after it like wolves. And thus the God helped us;—we remained alive in order to die to-morrow.'

Tumara ceased speaking, and bowed his head, again stroking his right ear with his right hand. The listeners were silent. In that moment of strained attention they seemed to hear the splash of each individual wave in the river, the swish of each branch in the wood, as it rocked in the gale. Suddenly another sound rang out distinct from these continuous sounds, making all faces brighten, and all heads turn in the direction whence it came.

Young Miore, Seltichan's son, bent down to his father, and whispered:

'Father, our people are coming!'

'Yes, they are coming!'

The train was actually approaching.

The old men remained seated, but the young ones slipped out of the circle one after another, and assembled in groups at the edge of the bushes, whence the whole procession, appearing at the rocky outlet to the valley, could be better seen.

A young girl rode in front on a dark yellow reindeer. Her clothes were richly ornamented with silver, a fact which at once suggested that she was a great favourite in her family. She held a long spear in her hand, and wore a band, embroidered with beads, on her loose hair. As she rode along, she cleared her path by cutting away the twigs and gnarled branches which might catch from behind on the packsaddle or her clothing. When she raised her spear the sunbeams played on the edge of its steel surface in a fiery gleam, and hovered over her head for a moment like a will-o'wisp; then, passing along her shining silver scarf, they fell on her right hand, and finally faded away in the grass of the river-islands.

'Choka! Chogai!' the charming girl exclaimed. She was accompanied by two black dogs, which kept running ahead, and then turning back to examine and sniff at everything, leaving nothing unnoticed. Following her in a long line came the laden reindeer, some of which were being ridden by women, and children who were tied on to the top like tight bundles.

At the very end of the caravan two armed huntsmen, aided by dogs, drove a herd of unladen reindeer with their calves. The noise, clatter, and bustle, the frightened calling of the cows seeking their calves which had gone astray in the confusion, the jingle of bells, the rattle of clappers hanging from the necks of the animals in front, the cries of the men calling to the herd or keeping it in order,—all this whirlpool of seething, exuberant life filled the valley with a resounding echo, and fell on the ear of the listener as a great familiar song of the happiness and well-being of a free nomad existence.

The spectators' eyes glistened. Unable to restrain an outburst of feeling, they began to describe the impressions made upon them by the scenes and faces passing by like fleeting shadows.

'See, there is old Nioren!'

'What an energetic old woman!'

'Formerly all the Tungus women were like that.'

'So they say—'

'Look how cleverly she manages her reindeer.'

'That's one good thing, but they say that she bore a son to Seltichan not long ago, and that's better still.'

'There's nothing wonderful in that; Majantylan's wife is older, and she also bore—'

'Hush! Look, there is Sala, the old man's daughter-in-law, about whom they sing songs.'

'But is she not worthy of them?'

'Yes, indeed!'

'You may chatter away, but if Miore hears you, he will give it you!'

'What can he do to us? I am not afraid of him.'

'Look,—look!—Laubzal!—Zleci!'

'Actually!—What a wild reindeer!—They needn't have put a little boy on it!'

'He's a plucky lad! Look!—The old man will be delighted with him!'

'And Chun-Me!'

'Ah! Chun-Me! Chun-Me!' several sighed, their glances seeking the girl with the steel-coloured fringe on her head.

'They say that the Kniaz wants to win her for his son.'

'Eh, the old man won't give him his favourite daughter,—not he!'

When Seltichan's eldest son rode by,—a famous hunter, commonly known by the name of 'Sparkling Ice,'—conversation was hushed out of respect to him.

And when the last reindeer of the caravan had disappeared into the bushes, and the branches closed swinging behind it, Seltichan rose from his seat and went away, taking leave of the company with a slight nod. This was to indicate that he was expecting them all to come to him shortly.

That evening there was a crowd round the old man's tent, for nearly all the temporary inhabitants of the valley were present. The host gave orders for several reindeer to be killed, and welcomed his guests. With the light-heartedness of true Tungus, they forgot their sufferings in satisfying their hunger after their long fast, and began to dance and join in cheerful songs.

The old men sitting by the fire watched the younger ones with enjoyment, and beat time with their heads, repeating the refrains.

'What do you think, Oltungaba, will the God withdraw his punishing hand, and allow joy to return to the mountains?' Seltichan asked, turning to one of the guests, the old man who was as dark as copper, and as wrinkled as moss.

'Our life, Seltichan, is a shadow falling upon the water,' Oltungaba answered meditatively.

The following morning the people in the valley awoke in an unusually solemn mood. The day proclaimed itself rich in events. The weather was exquisite, the sky clear and blue, without a trace of cloud.

Having assembled at the conference, the older and prominent members of families took their places in the front row, the younger ones behind them, and the women and children still further off, beyond the edge of the circle. Oltungaba, yielding to numerous entreaties, walked into the centre, and bowing, said:

'Why do you ask this of me, regardless of my old age?'

'To whom else can we turn?'

'There are distinguished shamans who are younger.'

'Oh, Oltungaba, who would dare to prophesy in your presence?' was asked from all sides.

The old man was silent, and looked distrustingly at the excited assembly.

'You hesitate,—when, maybe, the last day has come for many?'

'I am not thinking of myself, but calling to mind the ancient customs. Who will interpret my language to you? A difficult time demands a difficult language, and a painful time a painful language. And why arouse danger unnecessarily? If no brave man is found, must I die?'

'Let us all die! Surely, Oltungaba, you wish us well? We are resolved.'

'Then let it be so,' he assented, after a short moment's thought.

Two of the most famous shamans offered him a shaman's cloak with the long fringe, and a number of metal amulets and musical instruments. Then they smoothed out the old man's hair, and placed a horned iron crown on his head. An elderly Tungus, in attendance on the shaman, was drying a drum at the fire meanwhile. When perfectly dry and taut, he tested its elasticity by a blow with a small mallet. The well-known mournful sound stirred the echoes of the valley, and interrupted the talking. A white reindeer skin, with the head turned towards the south, was then spread in the middle of the circle. The old man sat down on it, and lighting his pipe, swallowed the smoke, and washed it down with water. Then he poured out the rest of the water to the four quarters of the globe, and turning his face to the sun, fell into a state of complete torpor. He sat thus for a long while with bowed head, his hair falling into his eyes, and his look fixed on the blinding white of the mountain tops. At length a shiver ran through his body, followed by a violent sob. The shivering and sobs increased by degrees until they passed into incessant convulsions and groans, in part feigned, in part real. The spectators could be heard sobbing also.

An old woman dropped down in a fit.

At the same moment a fleeting, dark shadow fell on the ground close to the shaman: an eagle was hovering between him and the sun. A piercing cry rent the air, and the people bent like grass before the gale.

Who cried? The shaman or the eagle?

No one knew.

'It is bad, it is bad,' the people murmured.

'Hush!'

The drum sounded several times with a deep and mournful echo, as the crowd was frightened into silence.—The eagle flew away into the distance.

Once more there was stillness, interrupted only by the shaman's muttering. After a while isolated sounds, coming, as it seemed, from the distant wood and depths of the mountain clefts, began to mingle, like the murmur of a swarm of bees, or the twitter of birds calling to one another. Then Oltungaba shook his bells. By degrees these sounds grew louder, and came nearer, until they passed away in the roar of the waterfall and the splash of the rain which was now falling in torrents. Yet deep and painful sighs, repeated more and more frequently, could be heard above the rush of the water. Oltungaba suddenly raised the drum above his head. Trembling violently, and covered with the pelting hail, he began to utter frightened sounds, like a sheep chased by a wolf. Then, all at once, throwing his hand into the soft reindeer skin, he became silent, but continued to tremble.

'Oh, Goloron!' the shaman groaned, hiding his face with his hands.

And there was stillness once more. Nothing was heard but the shaman's sobs and indistinct mutterings, accompanied by the beating of the drum. Above these sounds rose the intermingled cries of eagles, hawks, crows, and lapwings, which appeared to be circling in flights round the mountain tops. Their shrieking and cawing alternated with the shaman's unintelligible incantations. It almost seemed as if they foresaw some dreadful event, and were hastening to bring news of it in advance to the lords of the Äerial world.

By degrees the incantations became more distinct, the words more intelligible, till finally the first strophe of a chant burst from the shaman's lips.

'Do ye hear the roar of the sea?'

'Ah yes!' answered the attendant.

'I who am the first in creation—'

'Verily,' the attendant replied.

'I, the first among the chosen—'

'In truth,' the attendant repeated.

'Let them come blazing, like the shield of the sun!'

'Let them come!'

'He himself like the clouds,—the fiery raven precedes him—'

'Riddles for a child!'

'Riddles for a child!'

'I am thy son. I, wretched one, walking the earth, implore thee!'

'I implore!'

'Aid my weak strength in this stony path.'

'Oh, aid!'

'Oh, drum, my herald, and wind, my wings!'

'Aye, verily—'

'I approach you, encircled by winged and restless—'

'Winged and restless—'

'Their claws are open, their throats are extended—'

'Extended—'

'The mountains groan, the earth trembles within—'

'Ah!—'

'And I go ever fearfully, yet unhindered—'

'Protect me, my lord, I cry to thee—'

'For I am from the suffering nation!'

'I am indeed.'

'Mighty helper, angry, threatening saviour, have pity!'

'We pray!—'

'If I err, let me not perish on the pathless track!'

'Let me not!'

'Save the erring, lead me.'

'We go—'

Growing more and more animated, the old man stood up, and began to dance.

The dance resembled a march. The shaman described what he met in his path in fantastic language, and by gestures. The attendant followed him, repeating his words, and, at moments, supporting him by the elbow. Thus they came to the edge of the circle. Calmly and solemnly the shaman raised his drum towards the sky in silence, and then sang:

'Thou snake-like Etygar, dwelling in regions below the earth, ruling over the air, sickness, and death itself.—'

'Oh, Etygar!'

'And thou, Iniany, like to a man with huge wings, thou, who shelterest from destruction—'

'Iniany!'

'And thou, Arkunda, endued with the power of second-sight!'

'And thou, NormandaÏ, whose piercing cry turns the heart to ice!'

'And thou, iron-feathered Wavadabaki! And thou, whom we only know by thy shadow!—'

'I ask what you may require, and what is the cause of your anger? Restrain your ministers, withhold your persecutions. Know ye not that we perish, and if we perish, who will prepare your offering?'

'Who will?'

'To you I come defenceless, entangled in a long cloak. My head is bent with years, my open eyes cannot see far.'

'It is even so!' chimed in the attendant, who had been silent hitherto, not daring to repeat all these awful incantations.

'Going to the sea, and returning to the sea, I am a Nomad—'

'Yea, verily—'

'Ye like dark reindeer, ye like dappled reindeer; have they ceased to be pleasing?'

'Have they ceased?'

'Ha! Ha! Ha! When you dance, do you forget us, and being merry, do you shun us?'

'Is it, perhaps, rich furs, silver, glass ornaments, coloured dresses, sweet cakes, or vodka that you desire?'

'That cannot be!' exclaimed the attendant.

'Fools! Something, were it even everything, must be taken for the powerful!'

'Therefore choose a young girl from among us, and we will dedicate her.'

There was silence.

'Oh, fiery Goloron, feared on the earth, proclaiming—'

Again there was silence.

Oltungaba beat the drum, and the strokes rolled like thunder between the awful words, which, uttered haltingly, seemed to come from a distance.

'They give the scraps to the dogs! Let the people humble themselves, and an obedient man be found; otherwise they will fade like the morning mist.'

'O-oh! How can we possibly give anything, possessing nothing?'

'I will therefore tell you how it was in former days. Let it be he who is proud, he who is rich, whose sons are famed for their shooting, and daughters for their beauty; whom all love, whose thoughts are kind, and counsels wise, whose heart is brave, whose hand is open, whose soul seeks good. We wish to see the bewildered terror, the pale face, the tears of separation.'

Oltungaba became silent, and let the drum fall.

'No!' he said, after a moment's reflection, 'I will not disclose the name; possibly they may say; "Oltungaba is jealous." Yet what is human blood to me? A shaman needs nothing but his drum.—I have said everything.'

He concluded the rest of the ceremony rapidly, and took his place among the spectators, gloomy and exhausted. Tea was offered to him and the more honoured guests. The young men began to kill reindeer for the others, and to put the cauldron on the fire without delay. Yet none of this was accompanied by the gaiety and animation which usually prevails among the Tungus on such occasions. Those present talked with great restraint, lowering their voices almost to a whisper. They behaved with marked politeness to the family of Seltichan, and took pains not even to look at their host.

Seltichan was as calm and friendly as usual, as if he had not noticed anything, and even tried to start a conversation with Oltungaba. But the shaman preserved a gloomy silence. Then Seltichan began to relate aloud how he had spent that year beyond the mountains, throwing in various hunting anecdotes which he told with so much humour that he was soon surrounded by cheered and even smiling faces.

Only his favourite son, Miore, who was standing behind him, looked gloomily at everyone.

The frame of mind usual before a meal slowly gained the ascendancy. And when the pieces of savoury meat were taken from the cauldron, everyone had quite forgotten to be sad. Then Seltichan, forsaken by his listeners, became depressed at once, and Miore, watching his father attentively, grew gloomier still.

Unable to restrain himself longer, the lad burst forth angrily to Oltungaba, as he approached: 'I can see that you really want to make away with the old man.'

The latter regarded him with angry surprise.

'You are young and ignorant—'

'But nothing shall come of this,' Miore answered, and withdrew, shaking his head.

This short conversation did not escape other people's attention.

By the end of the banquet Seltichan had regained his usual amiability, as became a host who was entertaining the second day running without regard to his herds. But on returning to his tent he no longer concealed his anxiety, and sat meditatively before the fire, paying no heed to anything; he did not even see the supper his wife placed before him.

'Eat, Seltichan; do not grieve, my lord; I am your faithful servant!' she said at last, shaking him by the shoulder and looking at him affectionately.

The old man turned enquiringly towards his wife, and smiled. He ate heartily and with relish, for, according to Tungus ideas, no event in life is great enough to deprive a fat reindeer of its savouriness.

The following morning Seltichan awoke earlier than the rest, and possibly for the first time since becoming head of the family, he did not stir the half-extinguished fire, but, without waking anyone, quietly escaped from the tent.

The sun was shining, although it had not yet risen above the mountains. The dawn had disappeared, and it was broad daylight. Here and there golden lines bordered the blue shadows of the clefts in the snow-clad mountains. But meanwhile in the valleys, man and Nature were still asleep:—the wood slept, wreathed in mist; the embers glowed faintly on the cool hearths; the reindeer lay on the moss in the bushes, chewing the cud. The only sounds were the gurgle of the river, and the chuckle of the mountain pheasants, which were leaving their hidden roosting places, and flying to the tree tops.

The old man gazed at the familiar valley long and attentively. Suddenly he trembled. He could see a man standing before one of the tents in the distance; he also seemed to be looking at the surrounding country. Seltichan's keen glance recognized Oltungaba, but the tent, before which he was standing, belonged to the Kniaz. The old man's face clouded, and he went home.

'Get up, children!' he cried. 'Heh! Chun-Me! light the fire! You've had enough sleep for a day like this!'

They all sprang up frightened, and began to busy themselves. The old man looked on with pleasure while the work was silently shared in the order established by centuries. The women put the tea-kettle and cauldron on the fire, and carried the bedding out of doors; the men, after examining their thongs and arms, prepared to go into the wood to call the herd together. The bustle stopped when the tea was ready. They all sat down gravely round a plank serving as table, but as the host was silent, no one dared to talk, although all, not excepting old Nioren, were excited. The young women and girls looked at their father in unspeakable fear. Miore was sad and angry, but 'Sparkling Ice' regarded the old man with respect, not unmixed with a certain degree of curiosity.

After drinking his tea, Seltichan ate something, and lighted his pipe. Then he said to his youngest son:

'Go out, boy, and call the people.'

Miore did not stir from his seat.

'Do you hear?'

Not until the command had been repeated threateningly did the lad rise and begin to buckle on his things. But, instead of going, he suddenly threw himself at his father's feet.

'Are you determined? Are you determined? Oh, father do not leave us! The family will never agree to it. I was talking to the young men yesterday, and they said: "Rather than that, let all our reindeer die, and we will live by industry." But if they do decide on that in the end,—let the fat Kniaz be killed!'

'You are foolish, my boy,' the old man said with a smile. 'You do not know yet what I shall do. I wish to see the people.—Go, I tell you!'

'Oh, my lord, why do you deceive us with hope?'

'Don't talk nonsense.—I have already told you—'

'They will never let us off; it would be better to escape secretly.'

'I have already told you—' the old man repeated obstinately.

'Oh Father, let us escape, let us escape!' they all begged, stretching out their hands towards him. But the old man thrust away Miore, the most impetuous of them all, with a kick in the chest, and cried:

'Cursed birds of ill-omen, cease from breaking my heart!'

'I would like to know,' said 'Sparkling Ice,' who had been gloomy and silent hitherto, 'why Miore does not obey when our father commands him?'

The lad, who was lying as he had fallen, rose, and left the tent in silence.

Once more the people, from small to great, were assembled at the column in the valley. The armed men were dressed in their best attire,—various kinds of fur, which hung in long fringes. The sun shone on their ornaments as they took their seats in small bands according to families. They amused themselves, wrestled, and in no way betrayed the reason for coming there.

The members of Seltichan's family were distinguished among the rest by their choice arms and rich clothing, as well as by their strength, skill, and the proud independance of their bearing. Seltichan himself, who occupied the seat of honour among them, watched everything that took place with great attention.

'The tribe is enfeebled, and dying out,' he said from time to time. 'Was it not so with the family of Tumara? Where is Leljel, who was no less flourishing than we? Where is Nilken?'

'If you leave us, we also shall be enfeebled and dispersed,' his family answered him.

'"Sparkling Ice" will remain after me;—he is not my son, but my comrade!'

The grief of Seltichan's family on hearing this made the old man hesitate as he looked at them.

Meanwhile the excitement prevailing in the assembly increased, and strange rumours were whispered abroad. Somehow it came about that the members of Seltichan's family became more and more isolated from the rest, and were greeted with silence when they approached. Miore and some of the other young men were not disconcerted by this, however, and continued to mix freely with the crowd.

In the evening they all dispersed, but the excitement did not die down, and was only transferred to the tents and the camp fires. People sat talking in low voices until late into the night, alarmed when they saw anything unusual. Several even sharpened their spears. 'A man like that does not die without something happening,' they said.

On the third day they all came fully armed. Many of the young warriors brought their spears with them, and stood leaning on them outside the circle. The deliberations did not begin, but the excited whispers which passed round the crowd showed the passionate, though restrained, feeling. All eyes were continually turned towards Seltichan, who was sitting splendidly dressed among his sorrowing family, he alone calm and cheerful.

'Shall we allow the old man to cheat us?' whispered several.

'Shall we allow the old man to cheat us?' asked the Kniaz, going from one to the other.

'Well, and what then?' they asked him at one meeting. 'Perhaps you think it will be easier to get hold of the daughter when the old man is not there? You need not expect it; "Sparkling Ice" will never give her to you. He has not forgotten that little affair.'

'What affair? May all my reindeer die, and may I stay in one place to the end of my life, like a Russian in a wooden house, if that is true,' swore the Kniaz. 'Oltungaba is not a man of that sort!'

'Oltungaba drinks vodka!'

The Kniaz became confused, and did not know what to answer at once. 'Idiots!' he finally exclaimed, and stroking both ears, he ran off to carry his complaints elsewhere.

All this increased the excitement, and caused a great deal of talk, which ultimately reached Miore's ears through Seltichan's kinsmen. 'Father, they are deceiving you,' the youth exclaimed passionately, going up to him. 'You are willing to die, but it is all the doing of the Kniaz; he has bribed Oltungaba! He thinks there will be no one to equal him when you are not here! Father, I beg you, escape quietly. Our tents are struck, the young men are ready, the reindeer saddled; we shall be on the mountains before they have noticed anything. And even should they do so, are we not your children?'

Seltichan's face clouded.

'Let Oltungaba be summoned,—let him be tried!' he cried, rising.

'Oltungaba! Oltungaba!' exclaimed many of Seltichan's family.

'Oltungaba! Oltungaba!' was heard on all sides.

The grey-haired old man entered the circle reluctantly, looking as dark as moss.

'Is it true that you have taken a bribe from the Kniaz? That out of regard to him you have deceived us?' they all cried.

'Wait a little; let one speak! Don't you see that I have only two ears, so that a hundred voices only bewilder me?'

'Then let one speak!'

The head of one of the most distinguished families, who was very highly respected, stepped forward, and sitting down, began to ask questions.

'Did you take bribes?'

'Why shouldn't I take them? Don't I live on men's bounty? Haven't both you and Seltichan given me some too? The Kniaz also gave one, but he didn't ask for anything, and I promised him nothing. Is it not a sin to suspect it? How is it possible to say such a thing? The man will die! Ask his people.'

Witnesses were summoned, and the Kniaz was summoned. They all stood in the centre of the angry circle, looking rather frightened, but the enquiry led to nothing. The only thing that was clear was that Oltungaba had visited the Kniaz in his tent, as he had visited others, and had profitted by his liberality.

Stroking his ears with both hands, and swearing with quite unusual fervour, the Kniaz talked at extraordinary length of his disinterestedness, his merits, his zeal in safeguarding the interests of the tribe with the government, and, above all, of his sacrifices—in paying taxes.

Oltungaba spoke scornfully, and in monosyllables.

'You don't believe me, Seltichan,' he said finally, turning to the old man. 'Have you forgotten how I loved and taught you when you were a boy; how I advised you in difficulties, told you old legends, and about distant countries? Was I not your father's comrade,—his friend when you were still a little child, crawling on the ground? And later, when you grew up, did I not boast of you, and you, did you not listen to my advice? Who was the foremost warrior and hunter among us? Who spoke wisely and courteously?—You were always a true Tungus, Seltichan; we all know that.—Was it the worst who were offered in olden times? I swear to you, old man, and to all the tribes that I spoke the truth. I said what a voice from heaven commanded me to say! May my face be turned round to my back, and my body dried up like tobacco leaves, may my eyes fall out, and my muscles grow weak like badly dried yarn, and—may my hand burn, as the heart burns from unkindness'—here with a rapid movement he put his hand into the flame.

They all sprang up, and Seltichan drew the old man away from the fire.

'Oltungaba, forgive me, and all of you, forgive me,' he said with emotion. 'It is a sin to suspect evil. I will go,—I had already determined to do so. I am summoned, and I will go. If I stayed, you would be forced to go,—so would it be worth while? There is always one rotten egg in a nest.—Can a man be a man without reindeer? What is a Tungus without other Tungus?—I leave you, but you will not forget me!—Good-bye!—May your herds increase! May your children grow to manhood! May joy not shun your tents! May there be no lack of food in your cauldrons, of powder in your horns, and of goodness in your hearts!—I go away, but my thoughts are gentle, as the rays of the setting sun.—I am going now; I take leave of you, my people!—Farewell!'

With a quick movement he tore the figured 'dalys' on his chest, and plunged a knife up to the hilt into his heart.

He stood for a moment, his fading glance passing round them all,—then staggered, and fell.

A single great sigh burst from the crowd.

Oltungaba hastily knelt down beside the dying man, uncovered his breast, and placing his right hand near the wound, stretched his left towards the sun, crying:

'Oh, thou God ruling all things, help us,—shield us! We are not the last, and not the lowest, if we can send forth hearts like these!'

'Hearts like these!' groaned the crowd.

All, even the stout Kniaz, felt at that moment as if their hearts beat with the same readiness for sacrifice as that which was growing cold under Oltungaba's hand.

'He was a warrior,' whispered the shaman after a moment, and picking up the 'dalys,' he threw it over the face, quivering in its death agony.

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THE HOLYWELL PRESS
OXFORD

[1] Nightingale.