In the nature of things, and of
intercourse with gods, something terrible awaited him.
The god sat down several feet away. White Fang could see nothing
dangerous in that. When the gods administered punishment they stood on
their legs. Besides, this god had no club, no whip, no firearm. And
furthermore, he himself was free. No chain nor stick bound him. He
could escape into safety while the god was scrambling to his feet. In
the meantime he would wait and see.
The god remained quiet, made no movement; and White Fang's snarl slowly
dwindled to a growl that ebbed down in his throat and ceased. Then the
god spoke, and at the first sound of his voice, the hair rose on White
Fang's neck and the growl rushed up in his throat. But the god made no
hostile movement, and went on calmly talking. For a time White Fang
growled in unison with him, a correspondence of rhythm being established
between growl and voice. But the god talked on interminably. He talked
to White Fang as White Fang had never been talked to before. He talked
softly and soothingly, with a gentleness that somehow, somewhere, touched
White Fang. In spite of himself and all the pricking warnings of his
instinct, White Fang began to have confidence in this god. He had a
feeling of security that was belied by all his experience with men.
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