But the deep wounds were still in her sides.
The blood dripped from her belly as she made her way down into the thicker cover, leaving a red trail behind her.

A quarter of a mile away she lay down under a clump of dwarf spruce; and there, a little later, she died.
To Neewa and Miki--and especially to the son of Hela--the grim combat had widened even more that subtle and growing comprehension of the world as it existed for them.

It was the unforgettable wisdom of experience backed by an age-old instinct and the heredity of breed.
They had killed small things--Neewa, his bugs and his frogs and his bumble-bees; Miki, his rabbit--they had fought for their lives; they had passed through experiences that, from the beginning, had been a gamble with death; but it had needed the climax of a struggle such as they had seen with their own eyes to open up the doors that gave them a new viewpoint of life.
It was many minutes before Miki went forth and smelled of Newish, the dead owl.

He had no desire now to tear at her feathers in the excitement of an infantile triumph and ferocity.

Along with greater understanding a new craft and a new cunning were born in him.