Through all the ages man had been his one and only master.

Nature had impressed it upon him--had been impressing it upon him through a hundred or a thousand or ten thousand generations.
And now for the first time in his life that dormant part of his instinct leaped into warning wakefulness, and he understood.

He hated man, and hereafter he would hate everything that bore the man-smell.

And with this hate there was also born in him for the first time _fear_.

Had man never pushed Thor and his kind to the death the world would not have known him as Ursus Horribilis the Terrible.
Thor still followed the creek, nosing along slowly and lumberingly, but very steadily; his head and neck bent low, his huge rear quarters rising and falling in that rolling motion peculiar to all bears, and especially so of the grizzly.