Crusoe's was a forgiving spirit.

The instant that opposition ceased he forgot the injury, and was meekly advancing, when Dick held up his finger.
"Go outside, pup, and wait." Crusoe's tail drooped; with a deep sigh he turned and left the tent.
He took up a position near the entrance, however, and sat down resignedly.

So meek, indeed, did the poor dog look that six mangy-looking curs felt their dastardly hearts emboldened to make a rush at him with boisterous yells.
Crusoe did not rise.

He did not even condescend to turn his head toward them; but he looked at them out of the corner of his dark eye, wrinkled--very slightly--the skin of his nose, exhibited two beautiful fangs, and gave utterance to a soft remark, that might be described as quiet, deep-toned gurgling.

It wasn't much, but it was more than enough for the valiant six, who paused and snarled violently.
It was a peculiar trait of Crusoe's gentle nature that, the moment any danger ceased, he resumed his expression of nonchalant gravity.