Utterly beside herself now with the horror of this dreadful thought, she dashed from the hut—one idea in her mind—to get away from this awful place at whatever cost. But there was another who entertained different ideas concerning the disposal of her movements, and that was the wolf.
For as she approached the gap in the circular fence which constituted the exit, the brute lay and snarled. She talked soothingly, then scoldingly, as to a dog. All to no purpose. It lifted its hideous head, and snarled louder and more threateningly. But it would not budge an inch, and she could only pass through that gap over its body.
Perfectly frantic with desperation, Nidia tore a thorn bough from the fence; and, advanced upon the beast. It crouched, snarling shrilly; then, as she thrust the spiky end sharply against its face, it sprang at her open-mouthed, uttering a fiendish yell. But for the bough she would have had her throat torn out; as it was the sharp spines served as a shield between her and the infuriated brute, which, with ears thrown back and fangs bared, squirmed hither and thither to get round this thorny buckler—its eyes flashing flame, its jaws spitting foam. The struggle could not last for ever. Her strength was fast leaving her, and in her extremity a wild shriek of the most awful terror and despair pealed forth from the lips of the unhappy girl. Then another and another.
What was this? Unheard by the combatants because drowned by the savage yells and snarls of the one and the terrified screams of the other, there was a tearing, crashing sound at the upper end of the enclosure. A man dashed through the thorny fence—a white man—hatless and with clothes well-nigh in tatters—pale as death, his right hand grasping a sword-bayonet. Without a moment’s hesitation he made straight at the infuriated beast, darting such a stab with his weapon that had it gone home the wizard’s “familiar spirit” would have needed a successor. The quick movements of the animal, however, turned the blade aside—result a deep ugly gash along the ribs. But seeing it had no longer to deal with a badly frightened woman, but a strong, determined man, the skulking nature of the beast came uppermost even in the midst of its fury. With a shrill yelp of pain and fear, it fell off, and, turning, fled through the entrance like a streak of lightning.
The girl dropped the thorny bough and faced her rescuer, with a burst of half hysterical laughter. One exclamation escaped her—
“John Ames!”
Wonder, delight, relief—all entered into the tone. In the extremity of her fear and exhaustion conventionality was lost sight of—formality forgotten. The name by which she had been accustomed to designate him alone with her friend, to think of him alone with herself would out. Not another, word, though, could she utter. She stood there breathless, panting, a mist before her eyes, after the violence of her exertions, the extremity of her fear.
“Don’t try and talk,” he said—“simply rest.”
She looked at him—still panting violently—shook her head, and smiled. She was physically incapable of speaking after her exertion. But even then a contrast rose vividly before her—this man now, and when she had last seen him. They had bidden him good-bye, she and her relative, in the front door of the hotel at Wynberg, cordially—and conventionally—mutually expressing the wish to meet again soon up-country. Now, here he stood, having dropped, as it were, from the clouds, to come to her aid in her moment of sore need. And his appearance—haggard, unshaven, hatless, his clothes in tatters; yet it seemed to her sufficient at this moment that he was here at all. For some little while they sat in silence. Then he said—
“If you are sufficiently rested, tell me how it is you are here—in this place.”