Then, huddling close beside her, he reverted all at once
to a trait of his ancestors, a thousand generations back.
Sitting on his haunches and lifting his pointed nose to the
summer sky, he gave vent to a series of long-drawn wolf howls;
horrible to hear. There was no hint of a housebred twentieth
century dog in his lament. It was the death-howl of the primitive
wolf;--a sound that sent an involuntary shiver through the two
humans who listened aghast to their chum's awesome mourning for
his lost mate.
The Master made as though to say something,--in comfort or in
correction. The Mistress, wiser, motioned to him not to speak.
In a few seconds, Lad rose wearily to his feet; the spasm of
primal grief having spent itself. Once more he was himself;
sedate, wise, calm.
Limping over to where the car had halted so briefly, he cast
about the ground, after the manner of a bloodhound.
Presently, he came to an abrupt halt. He had found what he
sought. As motionless as a bird-dog at point, he stood there;
nose to earth, sniffing.
"What in blazes--?" began the Master, perplexed.
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