The three men set to work, vigourously cutting down brushwood and lopping off small boughs of trees with their swords.
“Divide the fire in four,” Halcon said, “and pile the fuel in the centre; they will hardly dare to pass between the fires.”
The pack was now descending the slope, keeping up a chorus of howls and short yelps which sent a shiver of uneasiness through Malchus. As the wolves approached the spot the howling suddenly ceased.
“They see us,” Halcon said; “keep a sharp lookout for them, but do not throw away a shot, we shall need all our arrows before daylight.”
Standing perfectly quiet, the friends could hear the pattering sound made by the wolves' feet upon the fallen leaves; but the moon had sunk now, and they were unable to make out their figures.
“It seems to me,” Malchus said in a whisper, “that I can see specks of fire gleaming on the bushes.”
“It is the reflection of the fire in their eyes,” Halcon replied. “See! they are all round us! There must be scores of them.”
For some time the wolves approached no closer; then, encouraged by the silence of the little group standing in the centre of the fire, two or three gray forms showed themselves in the circle of light. Three bows twanged. Two of the wolves fell, and the third, with a howl of pain, fled in the darkness. There was a sound of snarling and growling; a cry of pain, a fierce struggle, and then a long continued snarling.
“What are they doing?” Malchus asked with a shudder.
“I believe they are eating their wounded comrade,” Halcon replied. “I have heard such is the custom of the savage brutes. See, the carcasses of the other two have disappeared already.”