The lynx was far from fresh, and still stood in
some awe of those rows of teeth that snapped like traps when he
came too near. He was minded, of course, to kill his black
rival, but not to be hurt in doing so. Again and again there was
in some sort a closing fight, the wearied fox plunging
breathlessly through the treacherous, relentless snow. If he
could only get back to cover, he might find a corner to protect
his rear and have some fighting chance for life. But wherever he
turned that huge cat faced him, doubly armed, and equipped as a
fox can never be for the snow.
No one could watch that plucky fight without feeling his
sympathies go out to the beautiful silver fox. Rolf, at least,
was for helping him to escape, when the final onset came. In
another dash for the woods the fox plunged out of sight in a
drift made soft by sedge sticking through, and before he could
recover, the lynx's jaws closed on the back of his neck and the
relentless claws had pierced his vitals.
The justification of killing is self-preservation, and in this
case the proof would have been the lynx making a meal of the fox.
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