imal. But
the glance from the dying eyes--that glance, of which every elk-hunter
can tell a moving tale--pierced the boy to the very heart! It was such
a touching, appealing, imploring glance, so soft and gentle and
unresentful.

"Why did you harm me," it seemed to say, "who never harmed any living
thing--who claimed only the right to live my frugal life in the forest,
digging up the frozen mosses under the snow, which no mortal creature
except myself can eat?"

The sanguinary instinct--the fever for killing, which every boy inherits
from savage ancestors--had left Ralph, before he had pulled the knife
from the bleeding wound. A miserable feeling of guilt stole over him.
He never had shot an elk before; and his father, who was anxious to
preserve the noble beasts from destruction, had not availed himself of
his right to kill one for many years. Ralph had, indeed, many a time
hunted rabbits, hares, mountain-cock, and capercaillie. But they had
never destroyed his pleasure by arousing pity for their deaths; and he
had always regarded himself as being proof against sentimental emotions.

"Look here, Biceps," he said, flinging the knife into the snow, "I wish
I hadn't killed that bull."

"I thought we were hunting for poachers," answered Albert, dubiously;
"and now we have been poaching ourselves."

"By Jiminy! So we have; and I never once thought of it," cried the
valiant hunter. "I am afraid we are off my father's preserves too. It
is well the deputy sheriffs are not abroad, or we might find ourselves
decorated with iron bracelets before night."

"But what did you do it for?"

"Well, I can't tell. It's in the blood, I fancy. The moment I saw the
track and caught the wild smell, I forgot all about the poachers, and
started on the scent like a hound."

The two boys stood for some minutes looking at the dead animal, not with
savage exultation, but with a dim regret. The blood which was gushing
from the wound in the breast froze in a solid lump the very moment it
touched the snow, although the cold had greatly moderated since the
morning.

"I suppose we'll have to skin the fellow," remarked Ralph, lugubriously;
"it won't do to leave that fine carcass for the wolves to celebrate
Christmas with."

"All right," Albert answered, "I am not much of a hand at skinning, but
I'll do the best I can."

They fell to work rather reluctantly at the unwonted task, but had not
proceeded far when they perceived that they had a