No one seems to have a gun or weapon of any kind.  A peculiar paralysis affects them, a feeling of dumb horror.

A shriek sounds; from a window is seen the form of a native woman, who wrings her hands in terrible anguish.

The child’s mother!  God pity her! to be an eye-witness of her darling’s fate!

Lady Ruth turns to the colonel, to the man who so recently proudly declared that no English woman ever asked a favor that a British officer would not grant, no matter what the risk.

“Save the darling!” her pallid lips utter.

He trembles all over, groans, takes a couple of tottering steps forward, and then leans against the wall for support.

“I cannot,” he gasps.

Other Britons there are who would be equal to the emergency.  Mortal man has never done aught in this world that Englishmen dare not imitate, and indeed they generally lead.  It is unfortunate for England that an antipathy for dogs runs in the Blunt family.

This time Lady Ruth does not say “coward,” but her face expresses the fine contempt she feels.  With that mother’s shrieks in her ears, what can she think of a man who will hesitate to save a sweet child, even at the risk of meeting the most terrible death known to the world?

She turns to face the man who a short time before positively refused to risk his life because Miss Caprice desired it.

What can she hope from him?

As she thus turns she discovers that John Craig is no longer there, though three seconds before his hand was on her arm.

A shout comes from the street, where, when last she looked, not a living thing could be seen but the advancing mad dog and the kneeling child.  A shout that proceeds from a strong pair of lungs, and is intended to turn the attention of the brute toward the person emitting it.  A shout that causes hope to thrill in many hearts, to inspire a confidence that the innocent may be saved.

The young doctor from Chicago is seen bounding to meet the maddened brute, now so terribly close to the child.

None knows better than John Craig what the result of a bite may be.  He has seen more than one hydrophobia patient meet death in the most dreadful manner known to the profession.

Yet he faces this fate now, the man who was thought too cowardly to crawl out along that bleak rock and secure a white flower for a girl’s whim.

He goes not because it will be a great thing to do, or on account of the admiration which success will bring him.  That mother’s shriek of agony rings in his ears, and if he even knew that he was going to his death, yet would he still assume the risk.

It was on account of a mother—­his own—­he refused to risk his life before, and the same sacred affection inspires his action now, for he could never look into her dear eyes again, except in a shame-faced way, if he allowed this child to meet death while he stood an inactive spectator of the tragedy.