the brooding Victor a verbal poke to see if I could not rouse him.
"'I heard old man Martin, down at the post, giving some of the fellows the very devil for telling stories of werewolves in this country,' I remarked casually. I knew very well that Victor would be possessed of all the superstitions of his breed, and that old Martin and Victor were bitter personal enemies, but I was utterly unprepared for the sudden hatred that flared up in Victor's eyes.
"Across the fire I saw my guide’s deep-set eyes light up with sudden hatred.
"'Ol' Martin, he ees a fool! He ees crack'; he ees a child the secon' time! Who is he to laugh at better men, I ask you?'
"'Then you think there are werewolves in this country?' I asked, amused (God help me!) at the sudden ferocity of the man.
"'How can one know for sure?’ shrugged Victor. 'My own people, the French'—he was about one thirty-second French, the rest being several breeds of Indian—'they say for sure that there be werewolves. I have met men who have seen them. Where there ees so much sign, there must be game. Ees eet not so, M'sieu?' He smiled ingratiatingly, revealing flashing white teeth beneath his stiff and bristling mustache.
"I sent a cloud of tobacco smoke swirling through the chill night air, and watched it merge with the hurrying wreaths from the fire.
"'Bosh!' I rejoined, more for the purpose of seeing what he would say than for any great interest in the matter under discussion. 'Werewolves have long since been proven nothing but myths, Victor. Only ignorant people believe in such things these days.'
"I was surprized at the effect of my words. Victor's dark eyes lit up with a peculiar flickering light such as I had never before seen except in animals; the kind of weird, green glint you see in the eyes of a dog or a cat at night. His eyes narrowed until they were scarcely more than evil slits, and his thin, red lips drew away from his gleaming teeth until his face was utterly bestial in its expression of demoniac, insane hatred.
"'M'sieu thinks so?' he asked, and his voice was low and silky, like the purring of a cat or the soft guttural notes of a fawning dog. 'Well, M'sieu should know. He ees educate', and I am but a poor French bushman.' And he stalked off into the darkness toward the tent.
"I started to apologize, as I had not meant to offend the man, but he was gone. Oh well, I thought, let him turn in and sulk if he wanted to! I would finish my pipe anyway before following him. I leaned back comfortably against a big tree and, watching the weaving tongues of yellow and red, lost myself in re very.
"My thoughts drifted into many channels; almost I was dozing, when suddenly, sharp and clear as the note of a bugle on a winter morning, the hunting cry of a wolf shivered through the night silence. Once, twice, three times the eery, hellish call cut through the air; something maniacal, something threatening, something exultant, something pleading in the long, undulating notes. Despite myself I shivered, and drew closer to the glowing coals.
"'Hear the wolf, Victor?' I called to my guide, to break the uncanny silence that followed the challenge of the wolf.
"There was no answer.
"'Victor!' I cried sharply, suddenly apprehensive. Only palpitant silence answered me.
"I scrambled to my feet and ran to the tent. It was empty! Victor had disappeared.
"Suddenly the banshee wailing of the wolf again splintered the deathly stillness. It was nearer now, much
