Already he was badly wounded.

In any case he was at the mercy of the lynx who, in spite of his greater weight, had such broad and perfect snowshoes that he skimmed on the surface, while the fox's small feet sank deep.

The lynx was far from fresh, and still stood in some awe of those rows of teeth that snapped like traps when he came too near.

He was minded, of course, to kill his black rival, but not to be hurt in doing so.

Again and again there was in some sort a closing fight, the wearied fox plunging breathlessly through the treacherous, relentless snow.