One clear, cold morning, about two years after their marriage, Susan was awakened by a loud crash, immediately succeeded by Nero’s deep baying.  She recollected that she had shut him in the house, as usual, the night before.  Supposing he had winded some solitary wolf or bear prowling around the hut, and effected his escape, she took little notice of the circumstance; but a few moments after came a shrill, wild cry, which made her blood run cold.  To spring from her bed, throw on her clothes, and rush from the hut, was the work of a minute.  She no longer doubted what the hound was in pursuit of.  Fearful thoughts shot through her brain; she called wildly on Nero, and, to her joy, he came dashing through the thick underwood.  As the dog drew near, she saw that he galloped heavily, and carried in his mouth some large, dark creature.  Her brain reeled; she felt a cold and sickly shudder dart through her limbs.  But Susan was a hunter’s daughter, and, all her life, had been accustomed to witness scenes of danger and of horror, and in this school had learned to subdue the natural timidity of her character.  With a powerful effort, she recovered herself, just as Nero dropped at her feet a little Indian child, apparently between three and four years old.  She bent down over him; but there was no sound or motion:  she placed her hand on his little, naked chest; the heart within had ceased to beat:  he was dead!  The deep marks of the dog’s fangs were visible on the neck; but the body was untorn.  Old Nero stood, with his large, bright eyes fixed on the face of his mistress, fawning on her, as if he expected to be praised for what he had done, and seemed to wonder why she looked so terrified.  But Susan spurned him from her; and the fierce animal, who would have pulled down an Indian as he would a deer, crouched humbly at the young woman’s feet.  Susan carried the little body gently in her arms to the hut, and laid it on her own bed.  Her first impulse was to seize the loaded rifle that hung over the fire-place, and shoot the hound; and yet she felt she could not do it, for, in the lone life she led, the faithful animal seemed like a dear and valued friend, who loved and watched over her, as if aware of the precious charge intrusted to him.  She thought, also, of what her husband would say, when, on his return, he should find his old companion dead.  Susan had never seen Tom roused.  To her he had ever shown nothing but kindness; yet she feared as well as loved him, for there was a fire in those dark eyes which told of deep, wild passions hidden in his breast, and she knew that the lives of a whole tribe of Indians would be light in the balance against that of his favorite hound.