m; but the losses might not improve the temper of the pack,
though they partially stayed the hunger of a few. And the white wolf
seemed to know that. Full devilish indeed was the cunning of that
brute.

Scarcely was the last bone cracked, scarcely the last wisp of skin
snapped up, than the white wolf, wet, and red and wringing over the
head, was away again, at full speed--and his full speed was a thing to
gasp over--with a wild and rousing howl that gave the pack no time to
ponder on its casualties.

This time also there was no trail, so the pack had full leisure to
concentrate all its energies upon the job in hand, or paw, I should
say--namely, galloping. No, racing would be the only word; for the
white wolf, knowing his kind, perhaps, gave the pack no leisure to grow
dangerous over its losses or its hunger. Only idleness gives time for
questions to be asked about leadership, and he kept them busy; and if
they wanted to keep up with him at all, they must needs extend
themselves to the full.

Soon he led them to a clearing running, straight as a railway cutting,
through the forest. Out in the clearing, he dropped his head, howled,
flung half round, and began to follow tracks; but the scent was enough
for him without the tracks. They were the footprints, the
sleigh-trail, and the hoofprints of the beaters, the hunters, and the
pack-horses, loaded with game from the hunt of the day that had just
gone.

For a moment the pack, even _that_ pack, his pack, the pack of the
White Wolf of the Frozen Wastes, checked a little, shied, and were
dumb. They were used to his leading them upon some hectic
murder-raids, but never one quite so blatant as this.

Quickly, however, the real pain in their empty stomachs got the better
of them, and they swept round and began to follow--half-a-dozen here
and there--with whimpers. And then, the excitement spreading, they all
rushed in, and breaking out, with a blood-curdling rush, into the
full-throated chorus, "Yi-yi-i-ki-yi!" of the wolf-pack in full cry--an
M.F.H. who had never heard wolves might have mistaken it for the music
of a pack of hounds if he had listened to it from a distance--they
swept on after the vanishing white brush of their leader, like some
great, hurrying, dark cloud-shadow, up the trail.

Anon, going always at their tireless wolf-lope that no beast in the
world can outdistance in the end, they came to a village. Some of the
beaters lived at this village,