s is dead, that the
war-spirit is gone, that they may come and attack us when they please;
for we cannot defend our property, and they will try to make us slaves?
What! shall Flatlanders become slaves? no never, never, _never_!" cried
Grabantak, furiously, though unconsciously quoting the chorus of a
well-known song.

"No, _never_," re-echoed Teyma with an emphatic nod, "yet there are many
steps between fighting for a useless rock, and being made slaves."

"Well then," cried Grabantak, replying to the first part of his
lieutenant's remark and ignoring the second, "we must fight to prove our
courage. As to losing many of our best men, of course we cannot help
that. Then we must kill, burn, and destroy right and left in Poloeland,
to prove our power. After that we will show the greatness of our
forbearance by letting our enemies alone. Perhaps we may even
condescend to ask them to become our friends. What an honour that would
be to them, and, doubtless, what a joy!"

"Grabantak," said Teyma with a look and tone of solemnity which
invariably overawed his chief, and made him uncomfortable, "you have
lived a good many years now. Did you ever make a friend of an enemy by
beating him?"

"Of course not," said the other with a gesture of impatience.

"Grabantak, you had a father."

"Yes," said the chief, with solemn respect.

"And _he_ had a father."

"True."

"And he, too, had a father."

"Well, I suppose he had."

"Of course he had. All fathers have had fathers back and back into the
mysterious Longtime. If not, where did our tales and stories come from?
There are many stories told by fathers to sons, and fathers to sons,
till they have all come down to us, and what do these stories teach us?
that all fighting is bad, except what _must_ be. Even what _must_ be is
bad--only, it is better than some things that are worse. Loss of life,
loss of country, loss of freedom to hunt, and eat, and sleep, are worse.
We must fight for these--but to fight for a bare rock, for a name, for
a coast, for a fancy, it is foolish! and when you have got your rock,
and recovered your name, and pleased your fancy, do the brave young men
that are dead return? Do the maidens that weep rejoice? Do the mothers
that pine revive? Of what use have been all the wars of Flatland from
Longtime till now? Can you restore the mountain-heaps of kayaks, and
oomiaks, and spears, and walrus-lines, from the smoke into which they
vanished!