"I have for both. The world
is at our feet, and all joy is ours. Come! come!"
She was in his arms, trembling, and he held her tightly. He rose to his
feet . . . But the snarling of hungry dogs, and the shrill cries of
Winapie bringing about peace between the combatants, came muffled to his
ear through the heavy logs. And another scene flashed before him. A
struggle in the forest,--a bald-face grizzly, broken-legged, terrible;
the snarling of the dogs and the shrill cries of Winapie as she urged
them to the attack; himself in the midst of the crush, breathless,
panting, striving to hold off red death; broken-backed, entrail-ripped
dogs howling in impotent anguish and desecrating the snow; the virgin
white running scarlet with the blood of man and beast; the bear,
ferocious, irresistible, crunching, crunching down to the core of his
life; and Winapie, at the last, in the thick of the frightful muddle,
hair flying, eyes flashing, fury incarnate, passing the long hunting
knife again and again--Sweat started to his forehead. He shook off the
clinging woman and staggered back to the wall. And she, knowing that the
moment had come, but unable to divine what was passing within him, felt
all she had gained slipping away.
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