THE SPIRIT OF THE HERD 125 



of night in some empty, dimly lighted alley. She 

 is on the prowl. The light of the narrow, gulch- 

 like street falls on her with a startling largeness 

 and marks her silent shadow on the flags. She 

 moves stealthily out to the corner, and, well within 

 the shadows, stops to glance furtively up and down 

 the open cross-street. But the people are all within 

 the shut doors. There is no one lost on the streets 

 for her to devour. 



The other day I stood in the edge of the woods 

 when a foxhound, hot on the fresh trail, came 

 baying through the trees toward me, his whole 

 body working convulsively, in an agony of eager- 

 ness, so absolute, single, and compelling was his 

 one wild, masterful desire. He saw nothing, heard 

 nothing, because he was tasting warm scent. I 

 spoke to him, but I might as well have spoken 

 to a tree. Neither hunger nor fear could stop him. 

 He could not feel hunger or fear or weariness. 

 He had forgotten utterly — gone wild. I have 

 not infrequently seen the deep-chested foxhounds 

 coursing the hills, their baying a wild but meas- 

 ured and exultant music rolling through the hol- 

 lows, and, tagging hopelessly along behind them, 

 but yelping and, "ki-aiying" to split their penny- 



