A thousand years and more of war had passed before the wolves and sheep at last made peace.
The treaty benefited everyone, for if the wolves ate many straying sheep, the shepherds sported many garments made of wolfskins. None were free to graze or hunt at leisure; fear spoiled every pleasure.
Peace was thus ordained and made official. Oaths were taken, hostages were given: by the wolves, their pups; the sheep, their guardian dogs.
Time passed. The wolflings grew to perfect wolves—with wolfish appetites for blood.
Until the shepherds were away they waited; then they strangled half the fattest lambs and took them to the woods to eat. This slaughter was the signal to the other wolves, who killed the trustful, sleeping dogs so quickly that scarce a yelp or whine was uttered.
Peace is in itself a good; but how can there be peace when enemies are disingenuous? With scoundrels, war must be continuous.