‘Come on, Sir Henry—come on!’
“Don’t go, pray,” said Joan to the man; “I am frightened,” —and she shrank to his side for protection, for the dogs were still walking round her growling, their hair standing up upon their backs.
By way of answer John tapped his forehead significantly and whispered, “You look out for yourself, missus; he’s going as his grandfather did. He’s allus been queer, but I never did see him like this before.”
Just then Rock reappeared from the house, carrying his double-barrelled gun in his hand.
“Towser, old boy! come here, Towser!” he said, addressing the dog in a horrible voice of pretended affection, that, however, did not deceive it, for it stood still, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Surely,” Joan gasped, “you are not going——”
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when there was a report, and the unfortunate Towser rolled over on to his side dying, with a charge of No. 4 shot in his breast. The horse, frightened by the noise, started off, John hanging to the reins.
“There, Towser, good dog,” said Rock, with a brutal laugh, “that’s how I treat them that try to interfere with my wife. Now come in, darling, and see your pretty home.”
Joan, who had hidden her eyes that she might not witness the dying struggles of the wretched dog, let fall her hand, and looked round wildly for help. Seeing none, she took a few steps forward with the idea of flying from this fiend.