“That it may please thee to forgive our enemies, persecutors and slanderers, and to turn their hearts.”
A burst from the bloodhound, at her very side, was the answer; and immediately the terrible animal broke from the undergrowth.
His reddish coat seemed more inflamed in color than ever; his open mouth, with its blood-colored tongue, was white with foam; and his eyes blazed with such fury, that they seemed to emit phosphoric light. He paused an instant, erecting his tall form, his hairs bristling with rage, for he did not immediately perceive his prey. His glance soon rested on her, however, when, with a yell that rung far and near through the forest, and startled the beasts of the chase from the noon-day coverts they had sought, he sprang at the throat of our heroine.
But, at that very instant, just as the hound was half way towards his victim, darting through the air with distended jaws and eager fangs, a quick, sharp report was heard, a whizzing sound smote on Kate’s unnaturally excited ear, and the dog, as if struck suddenly by a bolt from heaven, rolled over on the ground, nearly at the feet of his intended prey, his head shattered to pieces by a double load of buckshot.
For a moment, our heroine knew not whether to hail this as a welcome relief, or only as a respite to a more miserable doom. Her first thought was that Arrison, finding that the hound had outrun him, had fired to save her from the fangs of the excited animal. This impression was fortified, by seeing the refugee himself dash upon the scene, almost before the single convulsive movement of the dog was over, after he had fallen.
But this belief was removed by the very first words of the outlaw. Without even looking at Kate, he rushed up to the hound, and first gazing hurriedly on his mutilated form, glanced angrily around the little open space where these scenes were being enacted. Discovering nobody, however, he seemed for a moment perplexed; but instantly suspecting it was some one who had outstripped him, he cried, with every feature working with passion,
“Who fired that shot? Who dared kill my dog?” And he concluded with a blasphemous oath.
An answer came sooner than he expected, for while he still scowled around, the bushes parted directly in front of him, and Uncle Lawrence appeared, his finger on the trigger of his gun, and the piece held ready for instant service.
“I fired it, you villain,” coolly replied the veteran, placing himself before Kate, but without looking at her, while all the time he watched the outlaw as warily as one would eye a panther about to spring.
“Keep still—don’t touch me,” he whispered to our heroine immediately, in a tone so low as to be heard only by Kate. “Help is near, if we can gain time. I’ll die with you, my child, if I can’t save you.”