here, old boy, isn't it?" Ben said to him
one hushed, breathless night. "But wait just a little while more. It
won't be tame then."

It was true: the hunting party, if they had started at once, must be
nearing their death valley by now. Except for the absolute worst of
traveling conditions they would have already come. Ben felt a growing
impatience: a desire to do his work and get it over. His pulse no longer
quickened and leaped at the thought of vengeance; and the wolflike
pleasure in simple killing could no longer be his. It would merely be
the soldier's work--a dreadful obligation to perform speedily and to
forget. Even the memory of the huddled form of his savior and friend, so
silent and impotent in the dead leaves, did not stir him into madness
now.

Yet he never thought of disavowing his vengeance. It was still the main
purpose of his life. He had no theme but that: when that work was done
he could conceive of nothing further of interest on earth, nothing else
worth living for. Not for an instant had he relented: except for that
one kiss, on the occasion of her birthday, he had never broken his
promise in regard to his relations with Beatrice. His first trait was
steadfastness, a trait that, curiously enough, is inherent in all living
creatures who are by blood close to the wild wolf, from the German
police dog to the savage husky of the North. But he was certainly and
deeply changed in these weeks in the cave. He no longer hated these
three murderous enemies of his. The power to hate had simply died in his
body. He regarded their destruction rather as a duty he owed old Ezram,
an obligation that he would die sooner than forego.

The hushed, dark, primal forest had a different appeal for him now. He
loved it still, with the reverence and adoration of the forester he was,
but no longer with that love a servant bears his master. He had
distinctly escaped from its dominance. The passion and mounting fire
that it wakened at the fall of darkness could no longer take possession
of him, as strong drink possesses the brain, bending his will, making of
him simply a tool and a pawn to gratify its cruel desires and to achieve
its mysterious ends. He had been, in spirit, a brother of the wolf,
before: a runner in the packs. Such had been the outgrowth of innate
traits; part of his strange destiny. Now, after these weeks in the cave,
he was a man. It was hard for him to explain even to himself. It was as
if in the escape