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.

At sight of him and his capture Flint uttered a cry of wonder. He grunted and went into his squat, ignoring her. He was suddenly hungry. The hind, driven no longer, sank to the ground; the fawn began vigorously sucking. Flint, approaching her boldly, but careful to keep beyond reach of her jaws, stroked her steaming flanks. The hind turned her great violet eyes towards the woman, and it may be that the relief she felt, the comfort of having the milk drawn from her distended udder, became thereupon associated with the presence of Flint, who from that moment was no stranger to her. And presently Hawkon came out. He had found his meat and eaten of it, and only a sudden fear lest the hind should escape prevented his immediately sinking into sleep. Seeing Flint he was surprised. He had forgotten her. He became pleased with her and proud of his exploit.

‘Hawkon is a great hunter,’ said Flint.

Hawkon waxed talkative and began to tell her how it had all happened. ‘And now,’ he finished,’ we shall have milk.’ He drove the fawn away and tried to put himself in its place, receiving a kick in the face for his pains. He returned the kick with extreme violence. Flint soothed him.

‘Tomorrow,’ she assured him, ‘we shall take milk from this beast.’

‘And that one,’ said he, pointing to the fawn, ‘I shall eat. You shall have some too, because you are my woman.’ Then he told her the tale all over again. ‘We shall have milk,’ he pointed out, recalling attention to his idea. ‘I am clever and strong.’

Flint was all admiration. ‘You are great and very clever,’ she said. And paused a long while before adding: ‘We must tie the beast, lest it escape us in the night.’ She did not tell him what was also in her mind: that the fawn must not be killed tomorrow.

The talk turned on ways and means.

<p>CHAPTER 7</p><p>OF A WOMAN AND A WEDDING, AND HOW OGO DROPPED HIS AXE</p>