In the dusk and the shadows they were a terrible company, gaunt and ghostly, gray and grim.
For a long time the wolves neither moved nor uttered a sound; they merely sat on their haunches and stared upward at the living prey that they felt would surely be theirs.

The clouds, caught by wandering breezes, were stripped from the face of the sky, and the moonlight came out again, clear, and full, sheathing the scorched trunks once more in silver armor, and stretching great blankets of light on the burned and ashy earth.

It fell too on the gaunt figures of the gray wolves, but the silent and deadly circle did not stir.

In the moonlight they grew more terrible, the red eyes became more inflamed and angry, because they had to wait so long for what they considered theirs by right, the snarling lips were drawn back a little farther, and the sharp white teeth gleamed more cruelly.
Time passed again, dragging slowly and heavily for the besieged boys in the tree, but the wolves, though hungry, were patient.

Strong in union they were lords of the forest, and they felt no fear.