He came just in time to see how Sultan, a big fierce mastiff, sprang at Douglas’s neck, while his father, brandishing his whip, ran after him.
Michel Raudszus had thrust his hands into his pockets and was looking on.
“Father, what are you doing?” he shouted, tore the whip from his hand, and wanted to go after the dog, but before he could reach the struggling group the beast, strangled by the powerful hand of the giant, lay on the ground stretching out its four paws.
The blood ran down from Douglas’s arm and neck. His anger seemed over. He remained standing still, wiping his hands with his pocket-handkerchief, and said, with a good-natured smile,
“The poor beast has had to pay for it.”
“You are wounded, Mr. Douglas!” Paul cried, clasping his hands.
“He has taken my neck for a joint of veal,” he said. “Come with me for a few steps, and help me to wash myself, so that my womenkind may not be too much frightened.”
“Forgive him,” Paul entreated; “he did not know what he was doing.”
“Will you come back, you wretch?” shrieked his father’s voice from the yard. “I suppose you want to make common cause with that forsworn scoundrel!”
There was a convulsive twitch in his neighbor’s clinched fists; but he mastered himself, and said with a forced smile,