He saw the sapling cage in which Jacques
Le Beau had kept him a prisoner; the door of that cage was still
open, as Durant had left it after stealing him; he saw the
ploughed-up snow where he had leapt upon the man-brute--and he
whined.
He was facing the cabin door--and the door was wide open. He could
see no life, but he could SMELL it. And smoke was rising from the
chimney. He slunk across the open. In the manner of his going
there was an abject humiliation--a plea for mercy if he had done
wrong, a prayer to the creatures he worshipped that he might not
be driven away.
He came to the door, and peered in. The room was empty. Nanette
was not there. Then his ears shot forward and his body grew
suddenly tense, and he listened, listened, LISTENED to a soft,
cooing sound that was coming from the crib. He swallowed hard; the
faintest whine rose in his throat and his claws CLICKED, CLICKED,
CLICKED, across the floor and he thrust his great head over the
side of the little bed. The baby was there. With his warm tongue
he kissed it--just once--and then, with another deep breath, lay
down on the floor.
He heard footsteps. Nanette came in with her arms filled with
blankets; she carried these into the smaller room, and returned,
before she saw him.
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