Thorpe, his master, had dragged it there.
He lay down, with his nose to the warm coals and his eyes leveled between his forepaws, straight at the closed tent-flap.

He meant to keep awake, to watch, to be ready to slink off into the forest at the first movement there.

But a warmth was rising from out of the gray ash of the fire-bed, and his eyes closed.

Twice--three times--he fought himself back into watchfulness; but the last time his eyes came only half open, and closed heavily again.
And now, in his sleep, he whined softly, and the splendid muscles of his legs and shoulders twitched, and sudden shuddering ripples ran along his tawny spine.

Thorpe, who was in the tent, if he had seen him, would have known that he was dreaming.