Jan was conscious of a terrible
effort to take in breath, but he was not conscious of pain. The clutch
did not frighten him. It did not make him loosen his grip. His fingers
dug deeper. He strove to cry out still his words of triumph; but he
could make no sound, except a gasping like that which came from
between the gaping jaws of the man whose life his body and soul were
fighting to smother.
There was death in each of the two grips; but the man's was the
stronger, and his neck was larger and tougher, so that after a time he
staggered to his knees and then to his feet, while Jan lay upon his
back, his face and hair red with blood, his eyes wide open and with a
lifeless glare in them. The missioner looked down upon his victim in
horror. As the life that had nearly ebbed out of him poured back into
his body, he staggered among the dogs, fastened them to the sledge,
and urged them down the mountain into the plain. There was soon no
sound of the sledge.
From a bush a dozen yards away a wondering moose-bird had watched the
terrible struggle. Now he hopped boldly upon Jan's motionless body,
and perked his head inquisitively as he examined the strange face,
covered with blood and twisted in torture.
The gray film of dawn dissolved itself into the white beginning of
day.
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