But Angus burst into a guffaw, “You a Windigo! You, who never hurt a fly! You are crazy. You’ve been drinking. Go home and sleep it off!” Pierre slunk home like a whipped cur, and threw himself on his bed crestfallen and humiliated. The Windigo had blessed him, yet he could not be Windigo. It was not in him. Even the Windigo could help only men like MacDonald. Thus he lay in impotent grief till exhaustion brought sleep. Then the Windigo loomed in sight and whispered, “In the spring, fool! I said, in the spring!”