There was a curious sickness in his head.

He wanted to lie down in the snow.

But the old and infallible instinct warned him not to betray that weakness.

From out of the pack a slim, lithe, gray she-wolf came up to him, and lay down in the snow before him, and then rose swiftly and sniffed at his wounds.
She was young and strong and beautiful, but Kazan did not look at her.
Where the fight had been he was looking, at what little remained of the old leader.

The pack had returned to the feast.