of time, and he did not move. It was at his ear. The harsh dry
tongue grated like sandpaper against his cheek. His hands shot out
- or at least he willed them to shoot out. The fingers were curved
like talons, but they closed on empty air. Swiftness and certitude
require strength, and the man had not this strength.

The patience of the wolf was terrible. The man's patience was no
less terrible. For half a day he lay motionless, fighting off
unconsciousness and waiting for the thing that was to feed upon him
and upon which he wished to feed. Sometimes the languid sea rose
over him and he dreamed long dreams; but ever through it all,
waking and dreaming, he waited for the wheezing breath and the
harsh caress of the tongue.

He did not hear the breath, and he slipped slowly from some dream
to the feel of the tongue along his hand. He waited. The fangs
pressed softly; the pressure increased; the wolf was exerting its
last strength in an effort to sink teeth in the food for which it
had waited so long. But the man had waited long, and the lacerated
hand closed on the jaw. Slowly, while the wolf struggled feebly
and the hand clutched feebly, the other hand crept across to a
grip. Five minutes later the whole weight of the man's body was on
top of the wolf. The hands had not sufficient strength to choke
the wolf, but the face of the man was pressed close to the throat
of the wolf and the mouth of the man was full of hair. At the end
of half an hour the man was aware of a warm trickle in his throat.
It was not pleasant. It was like molten lead being forced into his
stomach, and it was forced by his will alone. Later the man rolled
over on his back and slept.