There was no window to the shack, and the door was small and low. At this he knocked, while the dog scratched in his eagerness to gain admittance. No sound coming from within, Keith cautiously opened the rough barrier and entered, the cur leaping in ahead. The room was quite light from a fire burning in a rude stone fire-place, before which crouched a weird form, with knees drawn up to the chin in Indian fashion. Hair, long and unkempt, fell down over his neck, and a beard, months old, was rough and straggling. The cheeks were hollow, and the weary, sunken eyes, turned toward the door, were filled with alarm. It was only the dog he saw, which had rushed forward, and was leaping around him in the wildest excitement, licking his hands and face with intense fondness.
The man, however, did not recognize the animal, but drawing his blanket more closely around his body, huddled down in a terrified manner.
"Back, back!" he moaned. "Don't come near! For God's sake, spare me! Don't touch me! Help! Father! Connie!"
The tears streamed down the poor creature's cheeks, as he crouched there on the floor, pleading with an imaginary foe. The scene was pitiable to behold, and Keith hastened to his side.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "The dog won't hurt you."
The man started and looked up in a dazed manner. Then he reached forward with his long, bony fingers.
"Save me!" he moaned. "Drive them away! They will kill me!"
"Why, there's nothing to harm you," Keith replied. "It's your own dog come back to you, and he's licking your hands and face in his delight."
A gleam of intelligence stole into the man's eyes, as he looked slowly around, somewhat relieved.
"My dog?" he continued. "Brisko? Not wolves?"