Vane of the Timberlands by Harold Bindloss

A week or two had slipped away since Vane cut his hand. He lounged one morning upon the terrace, chatting with Carroll. It was a heavy, black morning; the hills were hidden by wrappings of leaden mist, and the still air was charged with moisture.

Suddenly a long, faint howl came up the valley and was answered by another in a deeper note. Then a confused swelling clamor broke out, softened by the distance, and slightly resembling the sound of chiming bells. Carroll stopped and listened.