Pŭl-Yūn had out-marched his pursuers, but he had over-marched himself. The pride of manhood kept him going, the same pride forbade him to acknowledge his terrible weariness, but his wife was not deceived.
"I will watch first," she had said, and had insisted upon taking a last look round their hiding-place before turning in. Upon her return she found, as she had anticipated, that her man was sunk in the deepest sleep that nature knows. The Master-Girl nodded, built herself a line of marks, slight, but sufficient, and glided off into the snow-lit night silent as an owl.
At midnight Pŭl-Yūn turned himself and woke with a sense of something lost. He was alone. For some moments his locality, and his very individuality escaped him, so deeply had he plunged, then both returned.
"Dêh-Yān, come in here, it is my watch," he whispered, but there was no reply. The man peered forth into the darkness, and got to his feet armed. His wife was gone. He listened. The night was thick and still, what wind was blowing came up the pass from the glen which they had left. It was bitter cold. Suddenly, from down the pass came one small sound, slight and keen as the squeak of a bat, but it was not the squeak of a bat, and Pŭl-Yūn felt the hairs creep upon his neck, for it was the shrieking yelp of a wolf. Now a wolf is an animal which hunts and lives in a society of its own, a society which has common needs and cooperates in its enterprises. Hence wolves have a multiplicity of cries with which to express their wants and intentions, and many of these were known to Pŭl-Yūn from childhood. But a wolf, though a villain, is no coward, and rarely, most rarely expresses pain. As a rule, when trapped he dies mute. What meant that single piercing yelp? To the ear and trained imagination of the woodlander it signified a spasm of surprise, despair, disappointment and grief. It was a call to the pack, "To me, my comrades! Haro! I am betrayed!"
That his wife's hand was in it Pŭl-Yūn never doubted, but how deep was her hand in it? and could she withdraw that hand? To have left him asleep and gone off upon a lone hunting at midnight was—it was—like her! But, it was hard upon him, very hard.
He took his weapons, axe and knife, for of what service are arrows in a midnight?—and moved in the direction of the cry. Within a few strides he stumbled upon the first of her marks, then upon a second, later upon a third. This, then, was no unpremeditated escapade; no, like everything else which she did, this foray towards the camp of the pursuing enemy was a thought-out business.
The snow creaked, something was coming. A quick light breathing, a swift foot, Dêh-Yān was upon him, had caught him silently by the arm, had turned him and was urging him to his top speed. He raced beside her obediently in blind faith, she smelt of wolf and of blood. There was a cry of wolves behind them as they ran, but Dêh-Yān was laughing. The cry, mingled with the shouts of hunters, rose to a crash.
"That is the last of it—they have come upon my kill, and are baying upon the blood. They can carry the line no farther."
She was right, the fierce, wild clamour rose and fell and rose again, but was stationary.