"We shall have to take to the woods," said Fred, "and there's little hope there."
"It won't do," added the sister, who seemed to be thinking faster than either of her companions. "The instant we start for the shore they will be at our heels. Make as if we were going to run in close to the right bank, so as to draw them after us; then turn and dash through them."
The manoeuvre was a repetition of the one she and her brother had executed a few minutes before, and was their only hope.
"I will take the lead with my pistol," said Monteith, "while you keep as close to me as you can."
Every second was beyond value. The wolves were not the creatures to remain idle while a conference was under way. At sight of the three figures near the middle of the course they rent the air with howls, and came trotting toward them with that light, springy movement shown by a gaunt hound, to whom the gait is as easy as a walk.
Monteith Sterry shot forward on his right foot, his revolver, with its two precious charges, tightly gripped in his naked hand.
This was to be called into play only in the last extremity. The killing of a couple of wolves from such a horde could produce no effect upon the rest, unless perhaps to furnish some of them a lunch, for one of the curious traits of the lupus species is that they are cannibals, so to speak.
His hope was that the flash and report of the weapon would frighten the animals into opening a path for a moment, through which the skaters could dart into the clear space below.
Having started, Monteith did not glance behind him. Fred and his sister must look out for themselves. He had his hands more than full.
With a swift, sweeping curve he shot toward the bank, the brutes immediately converging to head him off. The slight, familiar scraping on the ice told him that Fred and Jennie were at his heels. He kept on with slackening speed until close to the shore, and it would not do to go any further. An overhanging limb brushed his face.