“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.

Then anger, astonishment, horror itself were suddenly thrown out of her.  She was left like an empty vessel waiting to be filled with fear.  Miss Blake had cried aloud, “Help, Sheila!  Help!” This was followed by a dreadful screaming.  Sheila dropped her spear and leapt to the door.  On it, outside, Miss Blake beat and screamed, “Open, for God’s sake!”

Sheila shouted in as dreadful a key.  “On your side—­the bolt!  Miss Blake—­the bolt!”

Fingers clawed at the bolt, but it would not slip.  Through all the horrible sounds the woman made, Sheila could hear the snarling and leaping and snapping of the dogs.  She dashed to the small, tight window, broke a pane with her fist, and thrust out her arm.  She meant to reach the bolt, but what she saw took the warm life out of her.  Miss Blake had gone down under the whirling, slobbering pack.  The screaming had stopped.  In that one awful look the poor child saw that no human help could save.  She dropped down on the floor and lay there moaning, her hands pressed over her ears....

So she lay, shuddering and gasping, the great part of the night.  At last the intense cold drove her to the fire.  She heaped up the logs high and hung close above them.  Her very heart was cold.  Liquid ice moved sluggishly along her veins.  The morning brought no comfort or courage to her, only a freshening of horror and of fear.  The dogs had gone, and all the winter world lay still about the house.