The needle of terror at the heart of the gray wolf stabbed and tore.

His red eyes could not face the great red sun that swung now above the earth, shooting its fierce beams straight at him.
The dark, so kindly and so encouraging, beloved of his kind, was gone, and the earth swam in a hideous light, every ray of which was hostile.
His blood changed to water, his knees bent under him, and then, to turn fear to panic, came a powerful odor on the light, morning wind.

It was like the scent of the two strange, succulent creatures in the tree, but it was the odor of many--many make strength he knew--and the great gray wolf was sore afraid.
The sun shot higher and the world was bathed in a luminous golden glow.
The master-wolf cast one last, longing look at the lost food in the tree, and then, uttering a long quavering howl of terror, which the pack took up and carried in many echoes, fled headlong through the forest with his followers close behind, all running low and fast, and with terror hot at their heels.

Their gaunt, gray bodies were gone in a moment, like ghosts that vanish at the coming of the day.
"Rouse up, Paul!" cried Henry.

"They are gone, afraid of the sun, and it's safe for us now on the ground." "And mighty glad I am!" said Paul.