The huge hound, which was still coming direct toward the house, was now only a field away.  Separating the field from the road was a stone wall about three and a half feet in height.  Anyone crouching behind it, on the side of the road, could not be seen from the field.  The one, and only chance of intercepting the animal, flashed across her mind, and calling Baptiste to follow her she ran across the road and crouched behind the portion of the wall over which the animal must jump, unless it quickly altered its course.  Baptiste made a pitiful effort to follow her, but his weary limbs were unable to bear the strain any longer, and he fell unconscious to the floor.

As she ran across the road, had she glanced down it toward the village she would have seen a man, only a few rods distant, walking somewhat unsteadily toward the house.  He stopped abruptly and raised his hand in amazement as he saw the woman, knife in hand, hurry across the road and crouch behind the wall.  He ran toward her calling “Mother!” but the baying of the hound drowned his voice.  Before he could reach her she sprang to her feet just as the dog rose into the air from the opposite side of the wall.  She was exactly in front of it.  The beast uttered a howl of terror as the strange apparition so unexpectedly rose up before it.  Bravely she seized with her left hand one of the paws of the animal, and as it fell, the knife in her right hand gleamed again and was buried deep in the shoulder of the dog.  As she fell, the enraged animal turned upon her and buried its teeth in her arm.  She did not feel the bite; the crisis had passed—­the unnatural strength born of intense excitement had now deserted her.  Just as unconsciousness was dimming her eyes, she saw a man towering above her; she saw the stick in his hand fall with fearful force on the head of the animal, which rolled over on its side without uttering a sound.  Then the figure, which was growing more and more indistinct, caught her up in his arms, and a voice that she knew and loved so well called “Mother, mother!” She opened her eyes wearily and looked into the face of the man, and a smile, very beautiful to see, passed over her face.

“My Pierre; my son,” she murmured.  “I said I would release you.  I saw the blood on the knife, then I saw you spring up before me, and now I am in your arms.”

Her lips grew very white and her head fell back on his shoulder.  As he ran into the house with her he saw his father lying near the door, and he uttered a cry so full of remorse and sorrow that it entered the dulled ears of Baptiste and restored him to consciousness, and he followed his son into the little bedroom, where Pierre laid the brave little mother on the bed.  Tenderly the old man put his arms around his son’s neck and kissed him, and then the wayward one knew that he was once more forgiven, and that the past would be remembered against him by his father no more.