With a wild halloo he
stopped the team, and waited.
"That's unfair, Jan! You'll have to put me on the sledge."
He tucked her in among the furs, and the dogs strained at their
traces, with Jan's whip curling and snapping over their backs, until
they were leaping swiftly and with unbroken rhythm of motion over the
smooth trail. Then Jan gathered in his whip and ran close to the
leader, his moccasined feet taking the short, quick, light steps of
the trained forest runner, his chest thrown a little out, his eyes
upon the twisting trail ahead.
It was a glorious ride, and Melisse's eyes danced with joy. Her blood
thrilled to the tireless effort of the grayish-yellow pack of
magnificent brutes ahead of her. She watched the muscular play of
their backs and legs, the eager outreaching of their wolfish heads,
and their half-gaping jaws--and from them she looked to Jan. There was
no effort in his running. His pale cheeks were flushed, his black hair
swept back from the gray of his cap, gleaming in the sun. Like the
dogs, there was music in his movement, there was the beauty of
strength, of endurance, of manhood born to the forests. Her eyes shone
proudly; the color deepened in her cheeks as she looked at him,
wondering if there was another man in the world like Jan Thoreau.
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