She looked around in the darkness, trying to think of some means of defence, security, or escape, but found none. If she should open the door and fly from the house, she must inevitably fall an instant victim to their rapacity. That plan was rejected at once, as not to be thought of, except as the drowning think of catching at straws. And then her eyes flew wildly around in the darkness for means of defence or retreat. Alas! there was not a chance of either. She could go up into the loft, or climb up into the chimney, or bury herself in the bed; but an instant’s reflection convinced her that there was no place within the walls to which the fell wolves would not climb with more facility than she could, and no retreat to which their keen scent would not guide them, and from which they would not drag her to death. And oh! in the midst of all her desperate thoughts, their frantic onsets to the walls, their horrible baying, barking, and tearing, nearly drove her mad with terror. Every instant she expected death! How thin, how slight the barrier that kept them out! The moment they should chance to strike the broken windows, protected only by the thin sheets, and so find the way of entrance, that very moment must the cabin be filled by the hungry and ravening beasts. For an instant, perhaps, the beef, whose scent had drawn them to the spot, might divert them from herself, but only for an instant, for that flesh would be swiftly torn in pieces and devoured; and then what a fate would be hers! To perish so sharply and suddenly, and by such a ghastly death! And not of herself alone did she think in that hour of dread, but of all whom her death would appal and afflict; and of him, oh! of him whom it would most awfully bereave. For herself—for her own person—it would not be so dreadful, after all, she thought. The sharp agony would soon be over—in a very few minutes most likely—and then all that was mortal and perishable of her—her small, frail body—would be totally destroyed; and her soul, she trusted, would be at rest. But, of the distant loved ones, whose hearts would thrill with horror at hearing of her fate, and of him whose life would be made desolate by her loss—whose arm, whose _brain_ would be stricken powerless by the terrible doom of her who was at once his inspiration and his object—this, oh! _this_ was the bitterness of death! But oh! the frightful, the maddening howls of the demoniacs outside scattered all her thoughts so quickly, it was impossible to reflect to any good end. But suddenly athwart the stormy chaos of deafening noise, despairing terror, and distracting thought, darted, like lightning, an inspiration! She had grown conscious that the storm outside had drawn itself to a point nearest the spot where the barrel and the meat stood; and the wolves were scratching and tearing furiously, and hurling themselves at the wall, baying all the while in full cry, or barking and fighting among themselves, like demons.