“'Courage, ole Pierre!' I cried; and I fired once into them. There was a shrill howl and cry, and several made a rush toward us, instead of away. I drop the lantern to load my revolver. Ole Pierre brushes against it, and in a second it starts to glide down the slope on the sleet-ice. It goes faster, I gaping after it, slips with a flicker over the edge, and we hear it crash and tinkle on the rocks down there!
“Quel horreur! It was savage. The kerosene flares up, and for once I see the whole scene plainly: the gorge, a great leap wide at its narrowest, spouting light; the ice-silvered hemlock-bridge leading to safety, but uncrossable except for a circus-dancer; a fringe of bushes, with the sudden-illuminated forms of strong-shouldered wolves cowering in their surprise at the light.
“Ole Pierre and I had three minutes,—I thought the kerosene would last that long,—then darkness, a rush from the dark, hot fangs feeling for the throat, and there would be no ole Pierre, no Prunier to rescue the girl in the ship from starvation.
“And at the thought of her came the picture of my little cabin, the fire we had left, the coziness of it. It made me mad—to die!
“'Quick, ole Pierre,' I say. 'Allons! We will crawl over the bridge,' and I kneel on it. But my knees slip. I sit on it and push myself along, until I can see the wrecked lantern, going slowly out. I call to ole Pierre, and he comes out two—three paces, whines, cries, lies down and trembles. The light is fading and when it goes it is our end. But I cannot leave ole Pierre.
“I crawl back and take him in my arms, a very big arm-load. The light is fading. I cannot see the bushes. And the eyes of the indistinct brutes again begin to gleam. They approach the end of the tree. Ole Pierre is too big to carry, and I set him down to fix my cartridges so that I can get them easily. It is not so long to dawn. If we can hold them at the end of the bridge till dawn, we might live.
“Suddenly a fearful thing happens: the kerosene flares up in a dying leap, then the dark rushes at us, and, with a concert of snarls, the pack comes with it. Ole Pierre is brave, but, as they reach us, the rush of them cannot stop on the ice, and I feel the hair of one, I hear his jaws. I know that they are pushing toward the edge, and in the dark I have to feel for ole Pierre.
“There is an awful melée, and I fire. By the flash I see ole Pierre by the brink, with two big wolves upon him. I drop my revolver to clutch at him. A dark form leaps at me. I have my knife in my teeth. I drive it hard and often, sometimes growling like a wolf myself, sometimes calling to ole Pierre.
“Once more the lantern flares enough to show the blood on my knife, the heap of struggling forms flung on my dog, and as it dies for the last time I fancy them sliding—sliding. I rush to save him, but must beat back a great hot-breathed creature whose jaws just scrape my scalp. We are all sliding together now, faster, faster, toward the edge of the gorge. A dripping muzzle tears my cheek,—it is this scar you see,—but with both hands I throttle it; and clutching with a sort of madness, I hold as we go over the edge—down, all together down—Poor ole Pierre!”
Prunier stopped. For an hour Essex Lad and I had listened, more and more intently, until now, when the subdued sound of his slow-speaking ceased, we were both gripping the edge of our chairs, falling over the edge of that gorge with him, sympathetically. I could have imagined the least noise into the click of jaws.