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208
Animal Heroes
·
Ernest Thompson Seton
207
Borgrevinck
was
terrified
and
furious.
He
struck
harder
at
the
Storbuk
as
he
bounded
over
the
rougher
snow,
and
vainly
tried
to
control
him.
He
lost
his
head
in
fear.
He
got
out
his
knife,
at
last,
to
strike
at
the
wild
Buk's
hamstrings,
but
a
blow
from
the
hoof
sent
it
flying
from
his
hand.
Their
speed
on
the
road
was
slow
to
that
they
now
made:
no
longer
striding
at
the
trot,
but
bounding
madly,
great
five-stride
bounds,
the
wretched
Borgrevinck
strapped
in
the
sled,
alone
and
helpless
through
his
own
contriving,
screaming,
cursing,
and
praying.
The
Storbuk
with
bloodshot
eyes,
madly
steaming,
careered
up
the
rugged
ascent,
up
to
the
broken,
stormy
Hoifjeld;
mounting
the
hills
as
a
Petrel
mounts
the
rollers,
skimming
the
flats
as
a
Fulmar
skims
the
shore,
he
followed
the
trail
where
his
mother
had
first
led
his
tottering
steps,
up
from
the
Vand-dam
nook.
He
followed
the
old
familiar
route
that
he
had
followed
for
five
years,
where
the
white-winged
Rype
flies
aside,
where
the
black
rock
mountains,
shining
white,
come
near
and
block
the
sky,
"where
the
Reindeer
find
their
mysterie."
On
like
the
little
snow-wreath
that
the
storm-wind
sends
dancing
before
the
storm,
on
like
a
whirlwind
over
the
shoulder
of
Suletind,
over
the
knees
of
Torholmenbrae--the
Giants
that
sit
at
the
gateway.
Faster
than
man
or
beast
could
follow,
up--up--up--and
on;
and
no
one
saw
them
go,
but
a
Raven
that
swooped
behind,
and
flew
as
Raven
never
flew,
and
the
Troll,
the
same
old
Troll
that
sang
by
the
Vand-dam,
and
now
danced
and
sang
between
the
antlers:
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