Kazan was sorry that his master had returned, dazed and bleeding, after he had torn McCready's jugular. Then he would have had her always. She would have loved him. She did love him. And he would have followed her, and fought for her always, and died for her when the time came. But Thorpe had come in from the forest again, and Kazan had slunk away quickly--for Thorpe meant to him what all men meant to him now: the club, the whip and the strange things that spat fire and death. And now-- Thorpe had come out from the tent. It was approaching dawn, and in his hand he held a rifle. A moment later the girl came out, and her hand caught the man's arm. They looked toward the thing covered by the blanket. Then she spoke to Thorpe and he suddenly straightened and threw back his head. "H-o-o-o-o--Kazan--Kazan--Kazan!" he called. A shiver ran through Kazan. The man was trying to inveigle him back. He had in his hand the thing that killed. "Kazan--Kazan--Ka-a-a-a-zan!" he shouted again. Kazan sneaked cautiously back from the tree. He knew that distance meant nothing to the cold thing of death that Thorpe held in his hand. He turned his head once, and whined softly, and for an instant a great longing filled his reddened eyes as he saw the last of the girl. He knew, now, that he was leaving her forever, and there was an ache in his heart that had never been there before, a pain that was not of the club or whip, of cold or hunger, but which was greater than them all, and which filled him with a desire to throw back his head and cry out his loneliness to the gray emptiness of the sky. Back in the camp the girl's voice quivered. "He is gone." The man's strong voice choked a little. "Yes, he is gone. _He knew_--and I didn't. I'd give--a year of my life--if I hadn't whipped him yesterday and last night. He won't come back." Isobel Thorpe's hand tightened on his arm. "He will!" she cried. "He won't leave me. He loved me, if he was savage and terrible. And he knows that I love him. He'll come back--" "Listen!" From deep in the forest there came a long wailing howl, filled with a plaintive sadness. It was Kazan's farewell to the woman.