The next moment she was at his throat, her teeth buried in his hair and flesh.
At first he snarled and tried to fight; but he was very young, and this was only his first day in the world, and his snarl became a whimper, his fight a struggle to escape.

The weasel never relaxed her hold.

She hung on, striving to press down with her teeth to the great vein where his life-blood bubbled.

The weasel was a drinker of blood, and it was ever her preference to drink from the throat of life itself.
The grey cub would have died, and there would have been no story to write about him, had not the she-wolf come bounding through the bushes.

The weasel let go the cub and flashed at the she-wolf's throat, missing, but getting a hold on the jaw instead.