He lay on his belly in the deep snow and shivered, and the three-quarters of him that was dog whined in a grief-stricken way, while the quarter that was wolf still revealed itself menacingly in his fangs, and in the vengeful glare of his eyes.
Three times the man--his master--came out of the tent, and shouted loudly, "Kazan--Kazan--Kazan!" Three times the woman came with him.

In the firelight Kazan could see her shining hair streaming about her, as he had seen it in the tent, when he had leaped up and killed the other man.

In her blue eyes there was the same wild terror, and her face was white as the snow.

And the second and third time, she too called, "Kazan--Kazan--Kazan!"-- and all that part of him that was dog, and not wolf, trembled joyously at the sound of her voice, and he almost crept in to take his beating.

But fear of the club was the greater, and he held back, hour after hour, until now it was silent again in the tent, and he could no longer see their shadows, and the fire was dying down.
Cautiously he crept out from the thick gloom, working his way on his belly toward the packed sledge, and what remained of the burned logs.
Beyond that sledge, hidden in the darkness of the trees, was the body of the man he had killed, covered with a blanket.