114 THE MOOSE 



intent were the furious combatants that neither 

 noticed the distance covered, or that the plateau 

 had its hmits, or that the cow had spirited herself 

 away and called no more. 



The tongue of high land elevated high above 

 the tree-tops ended in a sheer granite bluff which 

 walled an end of a sombre lake sunk deep in a 

 forbidding rocky tract, cruel in its darkness. 



Backwards, backwards across the tundra the old 

 bull was beaten, fighting now with the heart and 

 breath knocked out of him. He knew he was 

 vanquished, that youth had conquered, as it always 

 must. This lusty young moose was a warrior 

 indeed— the Olympic prize was his. 



Rattle, rattle went the great palmated horns as 

 they met in clashing combat, and then sounded no 

 more. For though the finer antlers carried by the 

 younger bull far overlapped the spread of those 

 worn by his opponent, points in their declension 

 frequently turn curiously, and stretch out clutching 

 claw-like tips dangerously. 



They were wrestling now on the extreme edge 

 of the bluff, unseeing, unthinking — the love-smoke 

 in their eyes. A greater danger than the horns 

 and hoofs of his enemy yawned behind the beaten 



