The sky was still
shrouded in a dense, velvety darkness: the snow was hard, and
glittered like a million points of white light. The moon--a dark red
orb--was blotted over with ragged masses of inky clouds and was fast
disappearing on the right of the horizon; on the left, a crimson dawn
full of menace was slowly breaking. The snow-wind blew and whistled
overhead. Around the wolf, under a bleak sky, were fallen pines and
little fir trees cloaked with snow.
He moved up to a lone, naked waste above the valley, emerged from the
wood, and stood with lowered head by its border, listening and
sniffing. Here the wind blew more strongly, the trees cracked and
groaned, and from the wide dark expanse of open country came a sense
of dreary emptiness and bitter cold.
The old wolf raised his head, pointed his nose, and uttered a
prolonged howl. There was no answer. Then he sped to the watering
place and to the river, to the place where his mate had perished.
He loped along swiftly, noiselessly, crouching on the earth,
unnoticeable but for his glistening eyes, which made him terrible to
encounter suddenly.
From a hill by the riverside a village could be descried, its mole-
like windows already alight, and not far distant loomed the dark
silhouette of a lonely farm.
The wolf prowled aimlessly through the quiet, snow-covered fields.
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