The bear reared on its hind legs and prepared to seize the young man with open mouth.
Winthrop felt that the crisis had come.
The young man raised his knife to plunge it into the shaggy breast before him, while, with eager but trembling hands, the girl reloaded the rifle.
But the sharp crack of a rifle came quick on the air.
Winthrop heard the “hiss” of a bullet that whirled past, close to his ear. Then, with a grunt of agony, the bear fell over on its side, clawed the air wildly for a moment—growled in pain, and sunk into the silence of death.
The rifle-ball which had passed so near to the ear of the young man had entered the body of the bear between the fore-legs and buried itself in the great red heart.
Winthrop could hardly believe his eyes when he beheld the grim king of the forest lying in death at his feet; when he saw the huge paws motionless that he had expected to feel tearing his own flesh.
He had been saved almost by a miracle.
A timely shot, and a good one, for an inch either way would have missed the heart of the bear or killed the young hunter.
Winthrop felt that both he and the beautiful girl had been saved by the shot of the, as yet, hidden friend.