“Lead her out softly, Harold,” murmured Arthur, without changing a muscle or altering his gaze.  But the agony of suspense had been too great—­Oriana, with a convulsive shudder, swooned and hung like a corpse upon Harold’s arm.

“Oh, God! she is dying, Arthur!” he could not help exclaiming, for it was indeed a counterpart of death that he held in his embrace.

Then only did Arthur falter for an instant, and the hound was at his throat.  The powerful jaws closed with a snap upon his shoulder, and you might have heard the sharp fangs grate against the bone.  The shock of the spring brought Arthur to the ground, and man and brute rolled over together, and struggled in the mud and gore.  Harold bore the lifeless girl out into the air, and returning, closed the door.  He seized a brand, and with both hands levelled a fierce blow at the dog’s neck.  The stick shivered like glass, but the creature only shook his grisly head, but never quit his hold.  With his bare hand he seized the live coals from the thickest of the fire and pressed them against the flanks and stomach of the tenacious animal; the brute howled and quivered in every limb, but still the blood-stained fangs were firmly set into the lacerated flesh.  With both hands clasped around the monster’s throat, he exerted his strength till the finger-bones seemed to crack.  He could feel the pulsations of the dog’s heart grow fainter and slower, and could see in his rolling and upheaved eyeballs that the death-pang was upon him; but those iron jaws still were locked in the torn shoulder; and as Harold beheld the big drops start from his friend’s ashy brow, and his eyes filming with the leaden hue of unconsciousness, the agonizing thought came to him that the dog and the man were dying together in that terrible embrace.

It was then that he fairly sobbed with the sensation of relief, as he heard the prancing of steeds close by the cabin-door; and Beverly, entering hastily, with a cry of horror, stood one moment aghast as he looked on the frightful scene.  Then, with repeated shots from his revolver, he scattered the dog’s brains over Arthur’s blood-stained bosom.

Harold arose, and, faint and trembling with excitement and exhaustion, leaned against the wall.  Beverly knelt by the side of the wounded man, and placed his hand above his heart.  Harold turned to him with an anxious look.

“He has but fainted from loss of blood,” said Beverly.  “Harold, where is my sister?”

As he spoke, Oriana, who, in the fresh night air, had recovered from her swoon, pale and with dishevelled hair, appeared at the cabin-door.  Harold and Beverly sought to lead her out before her eyes fell upon Arthur’s bleeding form; but she had already seen the pale, calm face, clotted with blood, but with the beautiful sad smile still lingering upon the parted lips.  She appeared to see neither Harold nor her brother, but only those tranquil features, above which the angel of Death seemed already to have brushed his dewy wing.  She put aside Beverly’s arm, which was extended to support her, and thrust him away as if he had been a stranger.  She unloosed her hand from Harold’s affectionate grasp, and with a long and suppressed moan of intense anguish, she kneeled down in the little pool of blood beside the extended form, with her hands tightly clasped, and wept bitterly.