"Miss Blake, what else is left for us to do? We can't let them claw down the door and tear us into bits, can we?" "You'd shoot my dogs?" "You said yourself that we might have to shoot them." Miss Blake gave her a stealthy and cunning look. "Take my gun, then"--her voice rose to a key that was both crafty and triumphant--"and much good it will do you! There's shot enough to kill one if you are a first-rate shot. I lost what was left of my ammunition the day I hurt my ankle. The new stuff is down at the post-office by now, I guess." The long silence was filled by the shifting of the dog-watch outside the door. "We must chain them up at any cost," said Sheila. Her lips were dry and felt cold to her tongue. "Go out and do it, then." The mistress of the house leaned back and crossed her ankles. "Miss Blake, be reasonable. You have a great deal of control over the dogs and I have none. I _am_ afraid of them and they will know it. Animals always know when you're afraid..." Again she managed a smile. "I shall begin to think you are a coward," she said. At that Miss Blake stood up from her chair. Her face was red with a violent rush of blood and the sparks in her eyes seemed to have broken into flame. "Very good, Miss," she said brutally. "I'll go out and chain 'em up and then I'll come back and thrash you to a frazzle. Then you'll know how to obey my orders next time." She caught up her whip, swung it in her hand, and strode to the door. "And mind you, Sheila, you won't be able to hide yourself from me. Nor make a getaway. I'll lock this door outside and winter's locked the other. You wait. You'll see what you'll get for calling me a coward. Your friend Berg's gone off on a long hunt ... he's left his friends outside there and he's left you.... Understand?" She shouted roughly to the dogs, snapped her whip, threw open the door, and stepped out boldly. She shut the door behind her and shot a bolt. It creaked as though it had grown rusty with disuse. In the stillness--for, except for a quick shuffling of paws, there was no sound at first--Sheila chose her weapon of defense. She took down from its place the Eskimo ivory spear, and, holding it short in her hand, she put herself behind the great elk-horn chair. Her Celtic blood was pounding gloriously now. She was not afraid; though if there had been time to notice it, she would have confessed to an abysmal sense of horror and despair. And again she wondered at her own loneliness and youth and the astounding danger that she faced. Yes, it was more astonishment than any other emotion that possessed her consciousness. The horror was below the threshold practicing its part.