Minute by minute it came more clearly, now growing in volume, now almost dying away, but every instant approaching--the distant hunting call of the wolf-pack! What the hangman's noose is to the murderer, what the leveled rifles are to the condemned spy, that hunt-cry of the wolves is to the wounded animal of the forests.
Instinct taught this to the old bull.

His head dropped, his huge antlers leveled themselves with his shoulders, and he set off at a slow trot toward the east.

He was taking chances in thus crossing the open, but to him the spruce forest was home, and there he might find refuge.

In his brute brain he reasoned that he could get there before the wolves broke cover.

And then-- Again he stopped, so suddenly that his forward legs doubled under him and he pitched into the snow.