From behind a jutting shoulder of black-and-purple rock came, suddenly and silently, a long, slouching, terrifying figure, the great white bear of the arctic. His narrow, low-browed snaky head and black-tipped muzzle were stretched out straight before him and his nostrils quivered as he sniffed the clear air for the taint of anything that might ease his mighty appetite. Living prey he did not expect, at the moment, or the terror of the North would not have shown his dread shape so openly upon that naked stretch of sunlit shore. But for nearly an hour, with the patience of all great hunters, he had lain hidden and motionless among the rocks, hoping that the seals, his favourite quarry, might be tempted shoreward to bask in this sheltered cove. Balked of this hope, he wandered down the beach to see what gleanings from the harvest of the tides might be gathered in the rock-pools.
A few mussels and whelks he had already scooped up and crunched greedily; a glutinous, musky-flavoured squid he had gulped down with relish, when he came upon a prize worth his quest. It was a big rock-cod, lodged, white-belly upward, in a fissure of the ledge. He clawed it forth and turned it over exultantly. It was fresh-killed—a great mouthful bitten cleanly out of the thick of the back.
Hastily bolting the fish, this wary hunter shrank
