It could not beat back the joyous racing of the blood in his body.

Sun and stars, day and night, sunshine and cloud, were trivial and inconsequential to him now.

For close to him, struggling with him, fighting through the night with him, trusting him, helpless without him, was the living, breathing thing he loved more than he loved his own life.

For many years, without knowing it, he had waited for this night, and now that it was upon him, it inundated and swept away his old life.

He was no longer the huntsman, but the hunted.