Had the creatures attacked Seymour and the Yankee at that moment theirs would have been an easy victory, for neither man could have lifted a weapon in defence; but they apparently had no idea of the presence of other than themselves.
Their long, fearfully-distorted limbs, their hideous feet and hands, armed with talon-like nails, their lean, emaciated bodies, covered with coarse, brown hair; their low, receding foreheads, flat noses, and immense, protruding, wolf-like fangs—all this, crowned by a mass of thickly-matted hair, which hung almost to the loins, seen in the dim, ghostly twilight of the underworld, made up a picture of diabolical horror such as would be difficult, if not impossible, to beat.
Their thick, coarse lips were drawn back in an everlasting snarl, and their bloodshot eyes gleamed savagely as they sighted the motionless figure of the giant elk.
“What are they?” Haverly whispered hoarsely, when the first shock of their appearance had passed, “men or devils?”
“Heaven knows!” was the low answer. “They are more like wolves than either!”
No scrap of clothing did the creatures wear, save a hide girdle, in which was stuck a broad-bladed knife, fit companion to the deadly-looking spear which each carried in its hand.
Straight towards the great ruminant the creatures glided, their faces aglow with savage expectancy.
Half a dozen paces from their quarry they paused, and, squatting on their haunches in a semicircle, raised a series of ghastly howls which thrilled the two spectators.
The great bull trembled at the sound. Doubtless he knew these wolfish brutes of old; perhaps had been hunted by them, and had managed to shake them off. But now his time had come.
Planting his forefeet firmly, he stood with lowered head, awaiting the end.