Very soon he would pay the price of his stupidity--of his slowness
to act. It was thought of that which quickened his pulse as he
stared out into the white space into which Bram had gone. Before
the night was over Bram would return, and with him would come the
wolves.

With a shudder Philip thought of Corporal Lee as he turned back
through the scrub to the big rock where he had made his camp.

The picture that flashed into his mind of the fate of the two men
from Churchill added to the painful realization of his own
immediate peril--a danger brought upon himself by an almost
inconceivable stupidity. Philip was no more than the average human
with good red blood in his veins. A certain amount of personal
hazard held a fascination for him, but he had also the very great
human desire to hold a fairly decent hand in any game of chance he
entered. It was the oppressive conviction that he had no chance
now that stunned him. For a few minutes he stood over the spot
where his fire had been, a film of steam rising into his face,
trying to adjust his mind to some sort of logical action. He was
not afraid of Bram. He would quite cheerfully have gone out and
fought open-handedly for his man, even though he had seen that
Bram was a giant. This, much he told himself, as he fingered the
breech of his rifle, and listened.

But it was not Bram who would fight. The wolves would come. He
probably would not see Bram again. He would hear only his laugh,
or his great voice urging on his pack, as Corporal Lee and the
other man had heard it.