"The strong should be ashamed to prey upon the weak. Pshaw! such a sport
ends in nothing. Man only is man's game."

Suddenly Pierre added: "When you thought you were going to die, you gave
me some papers and letters to take to Quebec. You will get well. Shall I
give them back? Will you take them yourself?"

Fawdor understood: Pierre wished to know his story. He reached out a
hand, saying, "I will take them myself. You have not read them?"

"No. I was not to read them till you died--bien?" He handed the packet
over.

"I will tell you the story," Fawdor said, turning over on his side, so
that his eyes rested full on Pierre.

He did not begin at once. An Esquimau dog, of the finest and yet wildest
breed, which had been lying before the fire, stretched itself, opened its
red eyes at the two men, and, slowly rising, went to the door and sniffed
at the cracks. Then it turned, and began pacing restlessly around the
room. Every little while it would stop, sniff the air, and go on again.
Once or twice, also, as it passed the couch of the sick man, it paused,
and at last it suddenly rose, rested two feet on the rude headboard of
the couch, and pushed its nose against the invalid's head. There was
something rarely savage and yet beautifully soft in the dog's face,
scarred as it was by the whips of earlier owners. The sick man's hand
went up and caressed the wolfish head. "Good dog, good Akim!" he said
softly in French. "Thou dost know when a storm is on the way; thou dost
know, too, when there is a storm in my heart."