By the time day dawned he was as if he never had been—­a memory, no more.  Heaven knows where he was!

Gulo appeared quite suddenly and very early, for him, next afternoon, beside some tangled brush on the edge of a clearing.  He was sitting up, almost bolt-upright, and he was shading his eyes with his forepaws.  A man could not have done more.  And, in fact, he did not look like an animal at all, but like some diabolically uncouth dwarf of the woods.

A squirrel was telling him, from a branch near by, just what everybody thought of his disgraceful appearance; and two willow-grouse were clucking at him from some hazel-tops; whilst a raven, black as coal against the white of the woods, jabbed in gruff and very rude remarks from time to time.

But Gulo was taking no notice of them.  He was used to attentions of that kind; it was a little compliment—­of hate—­they all paid him.  He was looking persistently down the ranked, narrowing perspective of the buttressed forest glade to where it faded in the blue-gray mist, southward, as if he expected something to come from there.  Something was coming from there now; and there had been a faint, uneasy sort of whisper in that direction for some time.  Now it was unmistakable.

A cow-elk, first of the wary ones to move on alarm, came trotting by, her Roman nose held well out; a red-deer hind, galloping lightly like some gigantic hare, her big ears turned astern; a wolf, head up, hackles alift, alternately loping and pivoting, to listen and look back, a wild reindeer, trotting heavily, but far more quickly than he seemed to be—­all these passed, now on one side, now on the other, often only glimpses between the tree-boles, while the wolverine sat up and shaded his eyes with his paws.  Something was moving those beasts, those haunters of the forest, and no little thing either.  Something?  What?

  Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,
    And the whisper spreads and widens far and near;
  And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now—­
    He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear.

Down came Gulo in that grim silence which was, except for his domestic arguments, characteristic of the beast, and trotted to a pool hard by.  The pool was spring-fed, and covered, as to every dead leaf and stone, with fine green moss of incomparable softness.  He drank swiftly and long, then flung about with a half-insolent, half-aggressive wave of his tail, and set off at a rolling, clumsy, shuffling shamble.

At ordinary times that deceiving gait would have left nearly everything behind, but this afternoon it was different.  Gulo had barely shed the shelter of the dotted thickets before he realized, and one saw, the fact.  He broke his trot.  He began to plunge.  Nevertheless, he got along.  There was pace, of a sort.  Certainly there was much effort.  He would have outdistanced you or me easily in no time, but it was not you or I that came, and who could tell how fast that something might travel?