At the very moment when Photogen caught up Nycteris, the telescope of
Watho was angrily sweeping the table-land. She swung it from her in
rage, and running to her room, shut herself up. There she anointed
herself from top to toe with a certain ointment; shook down her long red
hair, and tied it round her waist; then began to dance, whirling round
and round, faster and faster, growing angrier and angrier, until she was
foaming at the mouth with fury. When Falca went looking for her, she
could not find her anywhere.
As the sun rose, the wind slowly changed and went round, until it blew
straight from the north. Photogen and Nycteris were drawing near the
edge of the forest, Photogen still carrying Nycteris, when she moved a
little on his shoulder uneasily, and murmured in his ear,
"I smell a wild beast--that way, the way the wind is coming."
[Illustration: "IT TUMBLED HEELS OVER HEAD WITH A GREAT THUD."]
Photogen turned, looked back toward the castle, and saw a dark speck on
the plain. As he looked, it grew larger: it was coming across the grass
with the speed of the wind. It came nearer and nearer. It looked long
and low, but that might be because it was running at a great stretch. He
set Nycteris down under a tree, in the black shadow of its hole, strung
his bow, and picked out his heaviest, longest, sharpest arrow. Just as
he set the notch on the string, he saw that the creature was a
tremendous wolf, rushing straight at him. He loosened his knife in its
sheath, drew another arrow half way from the quiver, lest the first
should fail, and took his aim--at a good distance, to leave time for a
second chance. He shot. The arrow rose, flew straight, descended, struck
the beast, and started again into the air, doubled like a letter V.
Quickly Photogen snatched the other, shot, cast his bow from him, and
drew his knife. But the arrow was in the brute's chest, up to the
feather; it tumbled heels over head, with a great thud of its back on
the earth, gave a groan, made a struggle or two, and lay stretched out
motionless.
"I've killed it, Nycteris," cried Photogen. "It is a great red wolf."
"Oh, thank you!" answered Nycteris, feebly, from behind the tree. "I was
sure you would. I was not a bit afraid."
Photogen went up to the wolf. It _was_ a monster! But he was vexed that
his first arrow had behaved so badly, and was the less willing to lose
the one that had done him such good service: with a long and a strong
pull he drew it from the brute's chest. Could he believe his eyes? There
lay--no wolf, but Watho, with her hair tied round her waist! The foolish
witch had made herself invulnerable, as she supposed, but had forgotten
that, to torment Photogen therewith, she had handled one of his arrows.
He ran back to Nycteris and told her.
She shuddered and wept, but would not look.