His voice, the glitter in his eyes, told Philip this was no time for words.  He turned and ran swiftly across the clearing in the direction of the dog pit, Ten minutes later he came into a gloom warm with the smell of beast.  Eyes of fire glared at him.  The snapping of fangs and the snarling of savage throats greeted him.  One by one he called the names of the dogs he remembered—­called them over and over again, advancing fearlessly among them, until he dropped upon his knees with his hand on the chain that held Captain.  From there he talked to them, and their whines answered him.

Then he fell silent—­listening.  He could hear his own heart beat.  Every fibre in his body was aquiver with excitement and a strange fear.  The hand that rested on Captain’s collar trembled.  In the distance an owl hooted, and the first note of it sent a red-hot fire through him.  Still farther away a wolf howled.  Then came a silence in which he thought he could hear the rush of blood through his own throbbing veins.

With his fingers at the steel snap on Captain’s collar he waited.

CHAPTER TWENTY

In the course of nearly every human life there comes an hour which stands out above all others as long as memory lasts.  Such was the one in which Philip crouched in the dog pit, his hand at Captain’s collar, waiting for the sound of cry or shot.  So long as he lived he knew this scene could not be wiped out of his brain.  As he listened, he stared about him and the drama of it burning into his soul.  Some intuitive spirit seemed to have whispered to the dogs that these tense moments were heavy with tragic possibilities for them as well as the man.  Out of the surrounding darkness they stared at him without a movement or a sound, every head turned toward him, forty pairs of eyes upon him like green and opal fires.  They, too, were waiting and listening.  They knew there was some meaning in the attitude of this man crouching at Captain’s side.  Their heads were up.  Their ears were alert.  Philip could hear them breathing.  And he could feel that the muscles of Captain’s splendid body were tense and rigid.

Minutes passed.  The owl hooted nearer; the wolf howled again, farther away.  Slowly the tremendous strain passed and Philip began to breathe easier.  He figured that Josephine and the half-breed had reached last night’s meeting-place.  He had given them a margin of at least five minutes—­and nothing had happened.  His knees were cramped, and he rose to his feet, still holding Captain’s chain.  The tension was broken among the beasts.  They moved; whimpering sounds came to him; eyes shifted uneasily in the gloom.  Fully half an hour had passed when there was a sudden movement among them.  The points of green and opal fire were turned from Philip, and to his ears came the clink of chains, the movement of bodies, a subdued and menacing rumble from a score of throats.  Captain growled.  Philip stared out into the darkness and listened.