nowledge that he was master of the
wolf. He knew the wolf's response to his words before ever he spoke. And
now all the words in the language could not convey to these others
whence that knowledge had come.

He vaguely realized that this had always been some way part of his
destiny,--the imposition of his will over the beasts of the forest. He
had never tried to puzzle out why, knowing that such trial would be
unavailing. He had instinctively understood such creatures as these.
To-day he felt that he knew the wild, fierce heart beating in the lean
breast as a man might know his brother's heart. The bond between them
was hidden from his sight, something back of him, beyond him, enfolded
within a secret self that was mysterious as a dream, and it reached into
the countless years; yet it was real, an ancient relationship that was
no less intimate because it could not be named. In turn, the wolf had
seemed to know that this tall form was a born habitant of the forests,
even as himself, one that would kill him as unmercifully as he himself
would kill a fall, and whose dark eyes, swept with fire, and whose cool,
strong words must never be disobeyed.

"You never seen this wolf before?" Morris asked him, calling him from
his revery.

"Never."

"Then you must be old Hiram's brother himself, to control him like you
did. Lord, look at him. Crouching at your feet."

Suddenly Ben reached and took the wolf's head between his hands. Slowly
he lifted the savage face till their eyes met. The wolf growled, then,
whimpering, tried to avert its gaze. Then a rough tongue lapped at the
man's hand.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, now," he told the girl.

"He's right, Beatrice," Morris agreed. "He's tamed him. Even I can see
that much. And I never saw anything like it, since the day I was born."

It was true: as far as Ben was concerned, the terrible Fenris--named by
a Swedish trapper, acquaintance of Hiram Melville's, for the dreadful
wolf of Scandinavian legend--was tamed. He had found a new master; Ben
had won a servant and friend whose loyalty would never waver as long as
blood flowed in his veins and breath surged in his lungs. "Lay still,
now, Fenris," he ordered. "Don't get up till I tell you."

It seems to be true that as a rule the lower animals catch the meaning
of but few words; usually the tone of the voice and the gesture that
accompanies it interpret a spoken order in a dog's brain. On this
occasion, it was as if Fe