There was something frightful in the hoarse snarling of the angry beast, as he dashed his heavy shoulder against the rickety framework, and Oriana shrank nervously to Harold’s side.

“Secure that dog!” he said, as, while soothing the trembling girl, he looked over his shoulder reproachfully at Rawbon.  His tone was low, and even gentle, but it was tremulous with passion.  But the man gave no answer, and continued leering at them as before.

Arthur walked to him and spoke almost in an accent of entreaty.

“Sir, for the sake of your manhood, take away your dog and leave us.”

He did not answer.

The hound, excited by the sound of voices, redoubled his efforts and his fury.  Oriana was sinking into Harold’s arms.

“This must end,” he muttered.  “Arthur, take her from me, she’s fainting.  I’ll go out and brain the dog.”

“Not yet, not yet,” whispered Arthur.  “For her sake be calm,” and while he received Oriana upon one arm, with the other he sought to stay his friend.

But Harold seized a brand from the fire, and sprang toward the door.

“Stand from the door,” he shouted, lifting the brand above Rawbon’s head.  “Leave that, I say!”

Rawbon’s lank form straightened, and in an instant the revolver flashed in the glare of the fagots.

He did not shoot, but his face grew black with passion.

“By God! you strike me, and I’ll set the dog at the woman.”

At the sound of his master’s voice, the hound set up a yell that seemed unearthly.  Harold was familiar with the nature of the species, and even in the extremity of his anger, his anxiety for Oriana withheld his arm.

“Look you here!” continued Rawbon, losing his quiet, mocking tone, and fairly screaming with excitement, “do you see this?” He pointed to his mangled lip, from which, by the action of his jaws while talking, the plaster had just been torn, and the blood was streaming out afresh.  “Do you see this?  I’ve got that to settle with you.  I’ll hunt you, by G—­d! as that hound hunts a nigger.  Now see if I don’t spoil that pretty face of yours, some day, so that she won’t look so sweet on you for all your pretty talk.”

He seemed to calm abruptly after this, put up his pistol, and resumed the wicked leer.

“What would you have?” at last asked Arthur, mildly and with no trace of anger in his voice.

Rawbon turned to him with a searching glance, and, after a pause, said: 

“Terms.”

“What?”

“I want to make terms with you.”

“About what?”

“About this whole affair.”

“Well.  Go on.”

“I know you can hurt me for this with the law, and I know you mean to.  Now I want this matter hushed up.”

Harold would have spoken, but Arthur implored him with a glance, and answered: 

“What assurance can you give us against your outrages in the future?”