But now from the other side, and from behind them, the slinking creatures gathered. Their eyes glowed, gleamed, burned softly yellow through the dusk of the great wilderness that once had been the city's heart. The two last humans in the world could even catch the flick of ivory fangs, the lolling wet redness of tongues--could hear the soughing breath through those infernal jaws. Stern raised the rifle again, then lowered it. "No use," said he quite calmly. "God knows how many there are. I might use up all our ammunition and still leave enough of 'em to pick our bones. They'll be all around us in a minute; they'll be worrying at us, dragging us down! Come on--come on, the boat!" "Light a torch, Allan. They're afraid of fire." "Grand idea, little girl!" Even as he answered he was scrabbling up dry-kye. Came the rasp of his flint. "Give 'em a few with the automatic, while I get this going!" he commanded. The gun spat twice, thrice. Then rose a snapping, snarling wrangle. Off there in the gloom a hideous turmoil grew. It ended in screams of pain and rage, suddenly throttled, choked, and torn to nothing. A worrying, rending, gnashing told the story of the wounded wolf's last moment. Stern sprang up, a dry flaming branch of resinous fir in his hand. The rifle he thrust back into the bag. "Ate him, still warm, eh?" he cried. "Fine! And five shots left in the gun. You won't miss, Beta! You can't!" Forward they struggled once more. "Gad, we'll hang to this bag _now_, whatever happens!" panted Stern, jerking it savagely off a jagged stub. "Five minutes more and we'll--arrh! _would_ you?" The flaring torch he dashed full at a grisly muzzle that snapped and slavered at his legs. To their nostrils the singe of burned hair wafted. Yelping, the beast swerved back. But others ran in and in at them; and now the torch was failing. Both of them shouted and struck; and the revolver stabbed the night with fire. Pandemonium rose in the forest. Cries, howls, long wails and snuffing barks blent with the clicking of ivories, the pad-pad-pad of feet, the crackling of the underbrush. All around, wolves. On either side, behind, in front, the sliding, bristling, sneaking, suddenly bold horrors of the wild. And the ring was tightening; the attack was coming, now, more and more concertedly. The swinging torch could not now drive them back so fast, so far. Strange gleams shot against the tree-trunks, wavered through the dusk, lighted the harsh, rage-contracted face of the man, fell on the laboring, skin-clad figure of the woman as they still fought on and on with their precious burden, hoping for a glimpse of water, for the river, and salvation. "Take--a tree?" gasped Beatrice. "And maybe stay there a week? And use up--all our ammunition? Not yet--no--no! The boat!" On, ever on, they struggled.