By this time I had reached him. He was braced in the crotch of a limb, leaning against the tree trunk still holding his hunting knife. His coat was wet and I guessed at rather than saw the pallor of his face Below were the sounds of the dogs worrying at the animal.
"I—I guess they've finished him," said Jerry coolly sheathing his knife.
"It's lucky he didn't finish you," I muttered. "You're sure you're not hurt?"
"Oh, no."
"Can you get down alone?"
"Yes, of course."
But I helped him down, nevertheless, and he reached the ground in safety, where I saw that his face at least had escaped damage. But the sleeve of his coat was torn to ribbons, and the blood was dripping from his finger ends.
"Come," I said, taking his arm, "we'll have to get you attended to." And then severely: "You disobeyed me, Jerry. Why didn't you come down?"
He hesitated a moment, smiling, and then: "I had no idea a lynx was so large."
"It's a miracle," I said in wonder at his escape. "How did you hang on?"