Then came the life and death struggle between Harold and the wolf. With his empty pistol he struck him a fierce blow upon the head, while the wolf's teeth clutched the young man's leg.
"Quick, the knife," he gasped, and like a flash the dirk was buried in the brute's heart. The jaws relaxed. The leg was free again and the huge wolf rolled over.
The candle was still alight as Harold staggered, a gory spectacle, to his couch. Helen, too, was trembling and spotted with blood. Bravely she had faced it all and had not swooned.
"How terribly he has bitten you!" she cried with quivering lips.
"Only a scratch," was his answer. But the shots and Helen's screams had been heard, and the poles were being forced aside. Sir George, the Doctor, Cummings and others had come to the rescue.
"What in heaven's name have you here?" cried the former in consternation as, in putting his head in, he almost fell over the body of the dead animal.
"We've been entertaining a wolf," Harold gasped.
"And he's been trying to kill my husband," Helen added, bravely keeping back the tears.
"You're not dead yet, though," exclaimed the Doctor. "Can you stand up, old man?"
"Certainly I can." And Harold, spattered with blood, rose to his feet. "The rascal nipped my leg, though. Perhaps you had better look at it, Doctor."