With a cry of savage triumph the wolves leapt upon him in a hideous, howling, struggling mass.

Sigurd, scarcely gaining his feet after the fall, started forward alone.

For the horse that was dead was more to the wolves than the hero who yet lived.

And over the carcass they jostled and fought, and screamed ravenously, till nought remained to fight for.
Sigurd knew well, as he hastened forward, axe in hand and sword in belt--his spear had broken off short--that the respite was but short.

A few minutes and the pack would be once more on the trail, and then it would be his turn.