thought. It is probable that the elusive glow of the night added
to his size as he stood there. About his shoulders fell a mass of
unkempt hair that looked like seaweed. His beard was short and
thick, and for a flash Philip saw the starlight in his eyes--eyes
that were shining like the eyes of a cat. In that same moment he
saw the face. It was a terrible, questing face--the face of a
creature that was hunting, and yet hunted; of a creature half
animal and half man. So long as he lived he knew that he would
never forget it; the wild savagery of it, the questing fire that
was in the eyes, the loneliness of it there in the night, set
apart from all mankind; and with the face he would never forget
that other thing that came to him audibly--the throbbing, gasping
heartbeat of the man's body.

In this moment Philip knew that the time to act was at hand. His
fingers gripped tighter about the butt of his revolver as he
stepped forward out of the shadow.

Bram would have seen him then, but in that same instant he had
flung back his head and from his throat there went forth a cry
such as Philip had never heard from man or beast before. It began
deep in Bram's cavernous chest, like the rolling of a great drum,
and ended in a wailing shriek that must have carried for miles
over the open plain--the call of the master to his pack, of the
man-beast to his brothers. It may be that even before the cry was
finished some super-instinct had warned Bram Johnson of a danger
which he had not seen. The cry was cut short. It ended in a
hissing gasp, as steam is cut off by a valve. Before Philip's
startled senses had adjusted themselves to action Bram was off,
and as his huge strides carried him swiftly through the starlight