What is it—an animal? Yes. Bear, perhaps? No. Perhaps an Indian? No; it is a gaunt, gray wolf. The prisoner asks and answers these questions, then looks at the cripple. Still creeps the shadow; still plods the moon; still all is silence in Dead-Man’s Forest.
The gray wolf creeps nearer and licks his chops cravingly as he peers at the prisoner. Perhaps he anticipates a repast—perhaps he does.
The shadow is obscuring the captive’s head now—part of it; in a few moments it will be down over his face. Still he watches the gray wolf, still the gray wolf watches him, and still creeps the shadow—down down, down!
Still the moon wanes; and shadows about the glade are slightly changed, now. The captor silently draws his knife, whetting it on his palm. The prisoner watches him quietly.
The gray wolf might be mistaken for a dog, sitting so near on his haunches; but he is still a hungry wolf.
Part of the face is in the shadow now—only a portion; but the captor still whets the knife, while the prisoner quietly watches him.
The gray wolf howls mournfully as the shadow entirely clouds the white, bleak face.
The captor strikes a light among the lighter fagots; they blaze up, brightly. The flames quickly communicate with the other and larger fagots. They are dry and will burn until exhausted. The prisoner scowls.
There is a sudden movement of the captor’s arm; a bright, steely glimmer is in mid air; there is a dull blow and the sound of gurgling blood; and the gray wolf howls mournfully.
A figure, misshapen and deformed, glides over the glade, into the forest, and vanishes in silence; a gray wolf stalks up to a man in the midst of a burning pile; he sees a dagger in the man’s heart, and the man’s head is on his shoulder; he is alone with the dead.