He had always disliked to
have it touched. It was the Wild in him, the fear of hurt and of the
trap, that had given rise to the panicky impulses to avoid contacts. It
was the mandate of his instinct that that head must be free. And now,
with the love-master, his snuggling was the deliberate act of putting
himself into a position of hopeless helplessness. It was an expression
of perfect confidence, of absolute self-surrender, as though he said: "I
put myself into thy hands. Work thou thy will with me."
One night, not long after the return, Scott and Matt sat at a game of
cribbage preliminary to going to bed. "Fifteen-two, fifteen-four an' a
pair makes six," Mat was pegging up, when there was an outcry and sound
of snarling without. They looked at each other as they started to rise
to their feet.
"The wolf's nailed somebody," Matt said.
A wild scream of fear and anguish hastened them.
"Bring a light!" Scott shouted, as he sprang outside.
Matt followed with the lamp, and by its light they saw a man lying on his
back in the snow. His arms were folded, one above the other, across his
face and throat. Thus he was trying to shield himself from White Fang's
teeth. And there was need for it. White Fang was in a rage, wickedly
making his attack on the most vulnerable spot. From shoulder to wrist of
the crossed arms, the coat-sleeve, blue flannel shirt and undershirt were
ripped in rags, while the arms themselves were terribly slashed and
streaming blood.
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