In place of following the Swede’s example Philip ran to Celie.  Half way a bullet almost got him, flipping the collar of his shirt.  He dropped beside her and gathered her up completely in his arms, with his own body between her and the fire.  A moment later he thanked God for the protection of the bunk.  He heard the ripping of a bullet through the saplings and caught distinctly the thud of it as the spent lead dropped to the floor.  Celie’s head was close on his breast, her eyes were on his face, her soft lips so near he could feel their breath.  He kissed her, unbelieving even then that the end was near for her.  It was monstrous—­ impossible.  Lead was finding its way into the cabin like raindrops.  He heard the Swede’s voice again, crying thickly from the floor: 

“Hug below the lower log.  You’ve got eight inches.  If you rise above that they’ll get you.”  He repeated the warning to Armin.

As if to emphasize his words there came a howl of agony from another of the dogs.

Still closer Philip held the girl to him.  Her hands had crept convulsively to his neck.  He crushed his face down against hers, and waited.  It came to him suddenly that Blake must be reckoning on this very protection which he was giving Celie.  He was gambling on the chance that while the male defenders of the cabin would be wounded or killed Celie would be sheltered until the last moment from their fire.  If that was so, the firing would soon cease until Blake learned results.

Scarcely had he made this guess when the fusillade ended.  Instead of rifle-fire there came a sudden strange howl of voices and Olaf sprang to his feet.  Philip had risen, when the Swede’s voice came to him in a choking cry.  Prepared for the rush he had expected, Olaf was making an observation through the gun-crevice.  Suddenly, without turning his head, he yelled back at them: 

“Good God—­it’s Bram—­Bram Johnson!”

Even Celie realized the thrilling import of the Swede’s excited words.  Bram Johnson!  She was only a step behind Philip when he reached the wall.  With him she looked out.  Out of that finger of forest they were coming—­Bram and his wolves!  The pack was free, spreading out fan-shape, coming like the wind!  Behind them was Bram—­a wild and monstrous figure against the whiteness of the plain, bearing in his hand a giant club.  His yell came to them.  It rose above all other sound, like the cry of a great beast.  The wolves came faster, and then—­

The truth fell upon those in the cabin with a suddenness that stopped the beating of their hearts.

Bram Johnson and his wolves were attacking the Eskimos!