He could not move the fingers of
his left hand, but those of his right curved, stiffened. He desired
nothing more in the world than the contact with that great, bristling
black body, to leap aside from those ominous teeth, to set his fingers
in the wolf's throat. Reason might have told him the folly of such a
strife, but all that remained in his mind was the love of combat--a
blind passion. His eyes glowed like those of the wolf, yellow fire
against the green. Black Bart crouched still lower, gathering himself
for the spring, but he was held by the man's yellow gleaming eyes.
They invited the battle. Fear set its icy hand on the soul of the
wolf.
The man seemed to tower up thrice his normal height. His voice rang,
harsh, sudden, unlike the utterance of man or beast: "_Down!_"
Fear conquered Black Bart. The fire died from his eyes. His body sank
as if from exhaustion. He crawled on his belly to the feet of his
master and whined an unutterable submission.
And then that hand, warm and wet with the thing whose taste set the
wolf's heart on fire with the lust to kill, was thrust against his
nose. He leaped back with bared teeth, growling horribly. The eyes
commanded him back, commanded him relentlessly.
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