Then the haft of the knife grew slippery, and tough skin and bone turned the wandering blade.

It was an unpleasant business, but the man could not be fastidious, and he tore the flesh off with his fingers, knowing that he was in danger while he worked.

There were wolves in the neighborhood, and their scent for blood was wonderfully keen; it was a question whether they would reach the spot before he had left it.

When he stopped to clean the knife in the snow he cast a swift glance about.
He could see nothing farther off than a fallen trunk about a dozen yards away; beyond that the trees had faded into a somber mass.

A biting wind wailed among them, causing the needles to rustle harshly; but except for this there was a daunting silence.