On came the dog, full of fiery and bloody desire. Glimpses of him were caught at intervals, his dark brown body gleaming through the copses.
Now the patter of his feet came to their ears, and mixed with them, shouts behind: the robbers were hotly following their fore-running ally.
Suddenly he appeared, coming on at a true bloodhound pace—half-galloping, half-pacing—a sort of amble. He was only a few yards away.
Walter, taking a cool, steady aim at the hound’s breast, fired.
A confused snarling and growling was heard, the smoke hanging obstinately down, obstructing their sight. Gradually it lifted—just in the nick of time.
For, as Walter was peering through the covered entrance, knife in hand, the dog came on with a spring. He had been shot, as could be told by the blood on his breast, but not fatally. It only maddened him to stronger exertions.
Seeing Walter’s face at the entrance, the brute, with a fierce growl, sprung at him, with red jaws, white, wicked teeth, and a gleaming, bloodshot eye.
He was met half-way. As his fore-paws touched the barricade, Walter, exerting all his nerve and muscle, drove the keen-edged bowie into his breast—exactly in the bullet-hole. There was a maniacal, gasping snarl, a convulsive movement of the feet, a rapid quivering throughout his body, and the bloodhound fell to the ground, stone dead.
Katie was frightened as Walter drew back his knife and slowly wiped it on the vine-leaves. She had never before seen a brave man at bay—she had never seen such a fierce, passionate, and at the same time cool and resolute look upon his face. His wrath was majestic—he was a brave man at bay, battling for the one he loved.
His attention was quickly drawn to the approaching enemy by the sight of a thickset man at the head of the column, which was coming at Indian-file. He was short and squat, and his sable face proclaimed his Ethiopian origin.