All the rest of that night she whimpered with pain.
With dawn she dragged herself out to the lifeless little bodies on the rock.
And then Kazan saw the terrible work of the lynx.

For Gray Wolf was blind--not for a day or a night, but blind for all time.

A gloom that no sun could break had become her shroud.

And perhaps again it was that instinct of animal creation, which often is more wonderful than man's reason, that told Kazan what had happened.

For he knew now that she was helpless--more helpless than the little creatures that had gamboled in the moonlight a few hours before.