They were a sinister and suspicious lot, with a sneaking droop to their haunches, and their cry was not the deep-throated cry of the hunt-pack but a ravening clamour that seemed to have no leadership or cause.

Scarcely was the sound of their tongues gone beyond the hearing of Pierrot's ears than one of the thin gray beasts rubbed against the shoulder of another, and the second turned with the swiftness of a snake, like the "bad" dog of the traces, and struck his fangs deep into the first wolf's flesh.

Could Pierrot have seen, he would have understood then how the four he had found had come to their end.
Swift as the snap of a whip-lash the fight between the two was on.

The other twelve of the pack stopped.

They came back, circling in cautiously and grimly silent about their fighting comrades.