He could have escaped, he could have easily left them far behind when he first discovered that they were stalking him, but he had felt that they should be punished and now the event justified his faith.
It was not his first taking of human life, and while he would have shuddered at the deed a year ago he felt no such sensation now; they were merely dangerous wild animals that had crossed his path, and he had put them out of it in the proper way; his feeling was that of the hunter who slays a grizzly bear or a lion, only he had slain two.
He stood looking at them, and save for the rustling of the young grass under the gentle western wind the wilderness was silent and at peace.
The sun was shooting up higher and higher and a vast golden light hung over the forest, gilding every leaf and twig.

Henry Ware turned at last and sped swiftly and silently to the south, still thrilling with exultation over his deed, and the sequel that he knew would quickly come.

But in the few brief minutes his nature had reverted another and further step toward the primitive.
When he had gone a half mile in his noiseless flight he stopped, and, listening intently, heard the faint echo of a long-drawn, whining cry.
After that came silence, heavy and ominous.

But Henry only laughed in noiseless mirth.

All this he had expected.