But where was the Valhalla and her crew all this time?  Would they never, never come?

The Crusoes lived in hope.

Now in spring-time the foxes and bears of the north, that have slept or starved for months, become bold and dangerous through hunger.  Bears are always to be feared, but more so at this time of the year than any other.

[Illustration]

One day the prisoners of Fairy Island had been gayer than usual, but at last, tired and happy, they had lain down to rest.  It might have been about midnight when they were awakened by a warning growl from Briton.  Then, with Veevee, he sprang up and rushed to the gate barking furiously.

Tom sprang to his feet, and snatched up his rifle.  He was not left long in doubt as to who the enemy was.  The wild wolf-foxes were in force, and the yelping and howling outside was terrible to listen to.

He fired his rifle several times right into the centre of the pack, killing many and wounding more.  This only made matters worse.  The fierce and hungry beasts dashed themselves at the gate and tried to tear it in pieces.

Stones were hurled at them, but all in vain.  Poor Briton was as anxious to get out as they were to get in, and had to be kept back by force.

“Go, quick, Frank,” shouted Tom, “and stir up the fire; heap more peats and wood on, and bring lighted torches as soon as you can.  I will guard the gate till you come.”

So there Tom stood opposed to the whole awful crowd, with their glaring eyes, red tongues, and white-flashing teeth, with only a slight gateway between him and death.  When he thrust his rifle between the willow bars to take a shot, the beasts bit and tore at it, as if they would have dragged it from his grasp.

Aralia was busy helping Frank, and presently both came running up with lighted fir-torches, which Tom at once flung over the gate, together with pieces of burning peat and wood.  These did splendid work, and after a time the terrible pack drew off.

There was no more sleep that night, however, and towards morning the attack began again.  The foxes had dragged off their dead and wounded and devoured them.  In the gray light of morning they rushed to the gate once more, and the battle raged again in all its fury.

Poor little Pansy was trembling and shaking with fear as she looked up and saw that high up on the walls of the fort those savage, wild animals had taken their stand.

It was a terrible morning, and hope seemed at last to fade, for even brave Tom had grown faint and weary, and could fight but little longer.

CHAPTER IX

“Come along, Professor!  Come along, Mate!  The children are there somewhere, over in that strange island.  Ha! here is a bridge of rocks!  Thank goodness for that!  And look! here, too, are tracks!”

It was Uncle Staysail who spoke, and behind him was ’Fessor Pete himself, and at least a dozen well-armed sailors.