his life. All his instincts were alive. He had little hope of saving
himself, but he was determined to do what lay in his power.

His first impulse was to blow out the other candle. That would leave him
in the dark, and it struck him that his advantage would be greater if
there were no light. He came straight towards the bear, then suddenly
made a swift movement to the left, trusting to his greater quickness of
movement. The beast was nearly as quick as he, and as he dashed along
the wall towards the candle, he could hear its breath just behind him.

As he passed the window, he caught the candle in his hands, and was about
to throw it on the floor or in the bear's face, when he remembered that,
in the dark, the bear's sense of smell would be as effective as eyesight,
while he himself would be no better off.

He ran suddenly to the centre of the room, the candle still in his hand,
and turned to meet his foe. It came savagely at him. He dodged, ran
past it, turned, doubled on it, and dodged again. A half-dozen times
this was repeated, the candle still flaring. It could not last long.
The bear was enraged. Its movements became swifter, its vicious teeth
and lips were covered with froth, which dripped to the floor, and
sometimes spattered Ferrol's clothes as he ran past. No matador ever
played with the horns of a mad bull as Ferrol played his deadly game with
Michael, the dancing bear. His breath was becoming shorter and shorter;
he had a stifling sensation, a terrible tightness across his chest. He
did not cough, however, but once or twice he tasted warm drops of his
heart's blood in his mouth. Once he drew the back of his hand across his
lips mechanically, and a red stain showed upon it.

In his boyhood and early manhood he had been a good sportsman; had been