completely.  Besides, Ben knew that the praise was not deserved.  Excessive bravery had played no part in the scene of a moment before.  He had been brave just as far as Morris was brave, leaping freely in response to a call for help:  the same degree of bravery that can be counted on in most men, over the face of the earth.  Bravery does not lie alone in facing danger:  there must also be the consciousness of danger, the conquest of fear.  In this case Ben had felt no fear.  He knew with a sure, true knowledge that he was master of the wolf.  He knew the wolf’s response to his words before ever he spoke.  And now all the words in the language could not convey to these others whence that knowledge had come.

He vaguely realized that this had always been some way part of his destiny,—­the imposition of his will over the beasts of the forest.  He had never tried to puzzle out why, knowing that such trial would be unavailing.  He had instinctively understood such creatures as these.  To-day he felt that he knew the wild, fierce heart beating in the lean breast as a man might know his brother’s heart.  The bond between them was hidden from his sight, something back of him, beyond him, enfolded within a secret self that was mysterious as a dream, and it reached into the countless years; yet it was real, an ancient relationship that was no less intimate because it could not be named.  In turn, the wolf had seemed to know that this tall form was a born habitant of the forests, even as himself, one that would kill him as unmercifully as he himself would kill a fall, and whose dark eyes, swept with fire, and whose cool, strong words must never be disobeyed.

“You never seen this wolf before?” Morris asked him, calling him from his revery.

“Never.”

“Then you must be old Hiram’s brother himself, to control him like you did.  Lord, look at him.  Crouching at your feet.”

Suddenly Ben reached and took the wolf’s head between his hands.  Slowly he lifted the savage face till their eyes met.  The wolf growled, then, whimpering, tried to avert its gaze.  Then a rough tongue lapped at the man’s hand.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, now,” he told the girl.

“He’s right, Beatrice,” Morris agreed.  “He’s tamed him.  Even I can see that much.  And I never saw anything like it, since the day I was born.”

It was true:  as far as Ben was concerned, the terrible Fenris—­named by a Swedish trapper, acquaintance of Hiram Melville’s, for the dreadful wolf of Scandinavian legend—­was tamed.  He had found a new master; Ben had won a servant and friend whose loyalty would never waver as long as blood flowed in his veins and breath surged in his lungs.  “Lay still, now, Fenris,” he ordered.  “Don’t get up till I tell you.”

It seems to be true that as a rule the lower animals catch the meaning of but few words; usually the tone of the voice and the gesture that accompanies it interpret a spoken order in a dog’s brain.  On this occasion, it was as if Fenris had read his master’s thought.  He lay supine, his eyes intent on Ben’s rugged face.