as in
his eyes. "I can't go, old boy," he said. "This is my place--here.
Fenris, I can't leave the cave."

For a moment they looked eyes into eyes--in the glory of that moon as
strange a picture as the wood gods ever beheld. Once more the wolf call
sounded. Fenris whimpered softly.

"Go ahead if you like," Ben told him. "God knows it's your destiny."

The wolf seemed to understand. With a glad bark he sped away and almost
instantly vanished into the gloom.

But Fenris had not broken all ties with the cave. The chain was too
strong for that, the hold on his wild heart too firm. If there is one
trait, far and near in the wilds, that distinguishes the woods children,
it is their inability to forget. Fenris had joined his fellows, to be
sure; but he still kept watch over the cave.

The strongest wolf in the little band, the nucleus about which the
winter pack would form, he largely confined their hunting range to the
district immediately about the cave. It held him like a chain of iron.
Although the woods trails beguiled him with every strong appeal, the
sight of his master was a beloved thing to him still, and scarcely a
night went by but that he paused to sniff at the cavern maw, seeing that
all was well. At such times his followers would linger, trembling and
silent, in the farther shadows. Because they had never known the love of
man they utterly failed to understand. But in an instant Fenris would
come back to them, the wild urge in his heart seemingly appeased by the
mere assurance of Ben's presence and safety.

Ben himself was never aware of these midnight visits. The feet of the
wolves were like falling feathers on the grass; and if sometimes,
through the cavern maw, he half-wakened to catch the gleam of their
wild eyes, he attributed it merely to the presence of skulking coyotes,
curious concerning the dying coals of the fire.

XXXII

Beatrice had kept only an approximate track of the days; yet she knew
that an attempt to rescue her must be almost at hand. Even traveling but
half a dozen miles a day, and counting out a reasonable time for
exploration and delays, her father's party must be close upon them. And
the thought of the forthcoming battle between her abductor and her
rescuers filled every waking moment with dread.

She could not escape the thought of it. It lingered, hovering like a
shadow, over all her gayest moments; it haunted her more sober hours,
and it brought evil dreams at night. He