In the meantime, on glided the raft among the masses of ice
which were gradually getting closer and closer together.
Up till then, no Tartar detachment had been seen,
which showed that the raft was not abreast of the outposts.
At about ten o'clock, however, Harry Blount caught sight
of a number of black objects moving on the ice blocks.
Springing from one to the other, they rapidly approached.
"Tartars!" he thought. And creeping up to the old boatman,
he pointed out to him the suspicious objects.
The old man looked attentively. "They are only wolves!" said he.
"I like them better than Tartars. But we must defend ourselves,
and without noise!"
The fugitives would indeed have to defend themselves against these
ferocious beasts, whom hunger and cold had sent roaming through
the province. They had smelt out the raft, and would soon attack it.
The fugitives must struggle without using firearms, for they could
not now be far from the Tartar posts. The women and children were
collected in the middle of the raft, and the men, some armed with poles,
others with their knives, stood prepared to repulse their assailants.
They did not make a sound, but the howls of the wolves filled the air.
Michael did not wish to remain inactive. He lay down at
the side attacked by the savage pack. He drew his knife,
and every time that a wolf passed within his reach, his hand
found out the way to plunge his weapon into its throat.
Neither were Jolivet and Blount idle, but fought bravely
with the brutes.
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