"It was the first time I saw the Highlander," she replied, "and then he was only the faintest mistiest shape to me, but he was there. He floated by me and the wolves fell dead."
"Had he killed them?" I asked.
"I do not know. My master suddenly appeared skating round the bend of the river, his gun on his shoulder. The Highlander was not there when he arrived and my master bent over the wolves' bodies, then lifted his puzzled face to me as I struggled toward home at a little distance from them."
"'But it is astonishing!' he said. Then later he skinned the wolves, but that young one who is with the Good Highlander when he haunts these woods is the wicked cub who hunted me with his mother."
"But he is a good cub now," I said.
"He has a heart of gold," she replied. "I have seen him beside a dying fawn."
"I'm puzzled," I said. "Wolves have to get their living in this world. Yet we blame them for killing creatures who wish to live. However, there's one thing sure, lovely Phantom—when we animals die many things will be explained that we do not understand now."
"Sometimes when I am very frightened I wish to go to the Good Highlander and live that life where I shall be as bold as a wolf," she replied dreamily, "and that reminds me—I have sought you out to-day to thank you for what you did that afternoon the poachers shot me."
"Oh! Phantom," I said, "I could not bear to see you die."
"I was quite willing," she said dreamily. "I seemed to be drifting into a safe, soft black forest, but when you said my masters would be grieved I gladly came back."