It was a club that had broken one of his teeth and cut his lips, and it was a club that had beat against his ribs until--now--the blood came up into his throat and choked him, and dripped out of his mouth.

But this man had no club, and he looked friendly.
"You poor devil!" said David for the third time.
Then he added, dark indignation in his voice: "What, in God's name, has Thoreau been doing to you ?" There was something sickening in the spectacle--that battered, bleeding, broken creature huddling there against the tree, coughing up the red stuff that discoloured the snow.

Loving dogs, he was not afraid of them, and forgetting Father Roland's warning he rose from the log and went nearer.

From where he stood, looking down, Baree could have reached his throat.

But he made no movement, unless it was that his thickly haired body was trembling a little.