Kazan kept at her side.
Once--twice--twenty times they made that slow circle, and with each turn they made the old bull turned, and his breath grew heavier and his head drooped lower.

Noon came, and was followed by the more intense cold of the last half of the day.

Twenty circles became a hundred--two hundred--and more.

Under Gray Wolf's and Kazan's feet the snow grew hard in the path they made.

Under the old bull's widespread hoofs the snow was no longer white--but red.