They, too, were silent, their eyes only gleaming and their breaths drifting slowly upward.

To Buck it was nothing new or strange, this scene of old time.

It was as though it had always been, the wonted way of things.
Spitz was a practised fighter.

From Spitzbergen through the Arctic, and across Canada and the Barrens, he had held his own with all manner of dogs and achieved to mastery over them.

Bitter rage was his, but never blind rage.