He felt for an instant the hot breath of the beast, the trickle of hot blood on his cheek; and then all that was human in him passed. He growled and hurled the sinewy body of his unseen foe from him with a blow of his bear-like paw. He was a big man, and in his blood the primitive beast had grown large through long years of lonesome hiding from his kind. The dark hole echoed a muffled howl of anger, and in an instant man and beast rolled together in the darkness. It was a primitive struggle; the snapping of jaws, the rasping of hoarse throats that laboured with angry breath, snarlings of hate, yelps of pain, growls, whines. At last the man knew that it was a grey wolf he fought. He reached for its throat, but felt his hand caught in a hot, wet, powerful trap of teeth. He grasped the under jaw with a grip that made his antagonist howl with pain. Then with his other hand he felt about in the darkness, groping for the throat. He found it, seized it with a vice-like clutch, shut his teeth together, and threw all of the power of his massive frame into the struggle. Slowly, slowly, the struggles of the wolf became weaker. The lean, hairy form fell limply, and the man laughed with a strange, sobbing, guttural mirth—for he was master. Then again he felt the trickle of blood upon his cheek, the ache of his bitten hand. His anger returned with double fury. He kicked the limp body as he lay beside it, never releasing his grip. Suddenly he forgot to kick. There were sounds! He heard the _thump thump_ of hoofs passing his place of refuge. Then they ceased. There were sounds of voices coming dimly; then after a while the hoofs passed again, and there was a voice that said “saved hangin’ anyway.” The hoof beats grew dimmer, and Antoine knew by their hollow sound that his pursuers had begun to cross the ice on the back trail. He again gave his attention to the wolf. It lay very still. A feeling of supreme comfort came over Antoine. It was sweet to be a master. He laid his head upon the wolf’s motionless body. He was very weary, he had conquered, and he would sleep upon his prey. He awoke feeling a warm, rasping something upon his wounded cheek. A faint light came in at the entrance of the place. It was morning. In his sleep Antoine had moved his head close to the muzzle of the wolf. Now, utterly conquered, bruised, unable to arise, the brute was feebly licking the blood from the man’s wound. Antoine’s sense of mastery after his sound sleep made him kind for once. He was safe and something had caressed him, altho’ it was only a soundly-beaten wolf. “You pore devil!” said Antoine with a sudden softness in his voice; “I done you up, didn’t I? You hain’t so bad, I guess; but if I hadn’t done you, I’d got done myself. Hurt much, you pore devil, eh?” He stroked the side of the animal, whereupon it cried out with pain.