Every now and again the wolves halt and utter their awful prolonged howl, but in an instant they are after the man again. Every minute they become bolder. The man flies for his life. They know that he cannot hold out long. Now they catch hold of a corner of his fur coat, but let go when he throws his cap at them. They pounce upon it and tear it in pieces. This only whets their appetites. The poor man staggers on until he can hardly put one foot before another, and is almost at his last gasp. This is the moment, and the wolves throw themselves upon him from all sides. He screams, and fights with his hands; he draws out his knife and stabs into the pack in front of him, but a large wolf springs upon him from behind and brings him to the ground. There he has at any rate his back protected, but the eyes and teeth of the wolves gleam above him in the darkness, and he stabs at them with his knife. They know that he will tire of this game soon. Two wolves tear open his boots to get at his feet. He cannot reach them with his knife, so he sits up, and at the same moment the leader seizes him by the neck so that the blood spurts out over the white snow. The wolves have now tasted blood and nothing can restrain them. The man is beside himself and throws himself about thrusting desperately with his knife. The wolves attack him from behind and he falls again on his back. Now his knife moves more slowly. The wolves yelp, bark and pant, and the froth hangs round their teeth. The unfortunate man's eyes grow dim and he closes them, consciousness leaves him and he drops the knife from his hand, and the largest wolf is about to plunge his fangs into his throat. But suddenly the leader stops and utters a short bark, which in wolf's language is equivalent to an oath, for at the foot of an adjacent hill are seen two mounted Kirghizes, who have come out to seek their comrade. The wolves disappear like magic. The poor man lies quite motionless in his tattered furs, and the snow around is stained red with blood. He is unconscious, but is still breathing and his heart beats. His friends bind up his wounds with their girdles and carry him on the back of a horse to the tent, where he soon comes back to life beside the flames of the evening fire. Of course the Kirghiz must hate wolves. But the animals are cunning and seldom expose themselves to gunshot. Woe to the wolf that is wounded or caught! He is not killed, but the most cruel tortures are devised for him.