y mental, partly psychological. The man lying in the
copse is puzzled at his own condition, but he does not seek to analyze
it. He is not a student of such phenomena. He is but a vigorous young
backwoodsman, the hunter attached to the camp of lumbermen cutting trees
in the vicinity. The man has lain for some time listlessly, but the
feeling which he cannot understand increases now almost to an
oppression. He sees nothing, but there is an unusual sensation which
alarms him. He recognizes near him a presence--fierce, intense,
unnatural. A rustle in the twigs a few feet distant falls upon his ears.
He raises his head. What he sees startles and at the same time robs him
of all volition. It is not fear. He is armed and is courageous enough.
It is something else; some indefinable connection with the object upon
which he looks which holds him. There, where it has drawn itself closely
and stealthily from its covert in the underbrush, is a huge gray wolf.

The man can see the gaunt figure distinctly, though the somber light is
deepening quickly into darkness. He can see the grisly coat, the yellow
fangs, the flaming eyes. He can almost feel the hot breath of the beast.
But something far more disturbing than that which meets his eye affects
him. His own individuality has become obscured and another is taking its
place. He struggles against the transformation, but in vain. He can read
the wolf's thoughts, or rather its fierce instincts and desires. He is
the wolf.

Undoubtedly there exists at times a relation between the souls of human
beings. One comprehends the other. There is a transfer of wishes,
emotions, impulses. Now something of the same kind has happened to the
man with this dreadful beast. He knows the wolf's heart. The man
trembles like one in fear. The perspiration comes in great drops upon
his forehead, and his features are distorted. It is a horrible thing.
Now a change comes. The wolf moves. He glides off in the darkness. The
spell upon the man is weakened, but it is not gone. He staggers to his
feet, and half an hour later is in the lumbermen's camp again. But he
comes in like one insane--pallid of face and muttering. His comrades,
startled by his appearance, ply him with questions, receiving only
incoherent answers. They place him in his rude bunk, where he lies
writhing and twisting about as under strong excitement. His eyes are
staring, as if they must see what those about him cannot see, and his
breath comes q