Yet he prayed his God to send him help and bring him through the peril.
He hurried on, yet slowly, by reason of the tangled paths and dense underwood of the forest, listening to the angry tumult behind and wondering how long before the hue and cry began once more.
It was not long.

Scarcely had he forced his way a half-mile when he could hear the pack following.

Onward they came at a rush with hideous tumult, and Sigurd knew that the foremost would be upon him in a moment.
He strode on, casting a glance back at every step, and gripping fast his trusty axe.

Presently, just as he reached a small clearing among the trees, the brushwood behind him crackled, and a pair of eyes gleamed close at hand.
Then Sigurd turned, and putting his back against a broad tree, waited.
On they came, half sated, doubly savage with the taste of blood on their jaws.
Desperately once more fought Sigurd, swinging his axe right and left and dealing death at every blow, till he stood surrounded by a half-circle of dead or dying wolves.
Sigurd fought till he could scarce stand or wield his axe.

Many a cruel wound weakened him, his eyes grew dim, his hand unsteady, his blows uncertain.