Mrs Hampton hurried out, and the sound made by the closing door seemed to startle the sick man into action again.
“Ah, would you?” he growled. “Beast! Devil! What! Bite! Ah!”
He uttered a yell of pain, and clapped his hand upon his injured arm.
“Curse you! take that, and that. Now then! Yes, yelp and snarl. You’ll never bite again. Ah! It’s like red-hot irons going into my flesh; but kill your mad dog, they say, and there’s no harm done.”
“That miserable dog’s attack seems to have quite overset him,” whispered the lawyer. “Good heavens! what a terrible position for us all.”
George Harrington said nothing, but stood at the head of the couch, ready to seize and hold the sufferer the moment the next paroxysm occurred.
He had not long to wait, for with a howl that did not seem human, Saul Harrington made such a start that the couch cracked as if it was being wrenched apart.
“Ah, you here! Watching! But you can’t speak—you can’t tell tales. If I’d known, I’d have silenced you. Lie down, brute! Do you hear—lie down! Hey, Bruno, then; good dog. Lie down, old man,” he said, laughing softly, and talking in a low cajoling tone. “You know me, Bruno. Good dog, then. Lie down, old fellow. Friends, do you hear—friends. Good dog, then.”
He extended a hand toward the dog he imagined that he saw, smiling unpleasantly the while, and then once more he started and yelled horribly.
“Down, you beast! Curse you! Bitten me, have you. I’ll have your life, if I die for it. Beast! Devil! Curse you! Strong, are you? Yes, and I am strong too. Oh, if I had a knife!”