Taking her little silver-and-iron knife, Sam cut a strip of cloth off the man’s suit, infused with that same fir scent. Then, careful to hold it at its end, she dropped it into Heathcliff’s cage. Curious, Heathcliff ran over to it at once. No sooner had his nose touched the cloth than he started quaking and squealing, his bones shifting, fur shivering out of his tail, his mouth sprouting more teeth, until Sam and Hel were staring, disbelieving, at the tiniest, most furious wolf. The beastly Heathcliff squeaked in rage and tore the strip of fabric to shreds with his teeth.
