se against wolves--fire, and
here there was no wood of any sort. Only one course was open to
them, to go on. Their breath steamed back into their faces in
clouds; the slide and crunch of snow-shoes, and the creaking of
the sledge sounded under foot. The sun had dropped below the horizon,
and the early darkness had come swiftly marching down from the
north, bringing in its train the fickle, inconstant beauty of the
aurora. Great streamers of color shot silently from horizon to
zenith, and flickered with eerie dimness across the white gleam
of the snow.

But Donald did not see these things. In his ears was but one sound,
the baying of the wolf-pack on the hunt. He could almost see them
come, red tongues slavering between white fangs, gray shoulders
rising and falling in uneven rhythm, great, gray brushes flowing
straight out behind... He looked back. They had gained; they traveled
almost two feet to his one. Yet, if there were no accident it was
possible he could reach the forest.

"Damnation!"

Crying to Jean to go on, he halted and stooped over his snowshoes,
the slip-strings of which had loosened. In a minute, he was up
again and off, sliding, leaping from hummock to hummock, glissading
down the little inclines, speeding like a winged Mercury of the
North. How he could run, if alone! In five minutes, he caught the
dog and Jean, and accommodated his pace to theirs.

Now, the forest was a bare half-mile ahead, the pack but a half-mile
behind. The baying was near now, loud, exultant, terrifying. Perhaps,
the huge leader had sighted the swiftly flying figures on the snow.

"Donald! I can't go a step farther. Go on, and leave me!"

Suffocated with her own breathing, each foot seemingly lead, each
muscle and tendon a hot wire, Jean stumbled feebly where she ran.
Donald caught her, and halted the dog, that shook with his panting
like an engine after a long run. Two seconds, and the pack was
cut loose, and lay upon the snow. Two more, and Jean was on the
sledge. Another, and they were away again, with the forest in
plain sight now.

Fighting the hardest battle of all was Mistisi. Every steam-soaked
hair along his great back was erect; every other breath was a snarl;
every instinct in his fearless nature called for the struggle of
fangs against fangs for the protection of his master--the master
that had once saved his life. Big as any wolf, he was the match of
any, and his nature did not take into account the odds aga