“They saw that I was disabled; and for this reason had determined upon attacking me.
“After a time they did so—clustering around and springing upon me in a simultaneous onslaught.
“I had no weapon but my knife; and it was fortunate I had that. Altogether unarmed, I must have been torn to pieces, and devoured.
“With the knife I was able to keep them off, stabbing as many as I could get a fair stroke at. Half-a-dozen, I should think, were killed in this way.
“For all that it would have ended ill for me. I was becoming enfeebled by the blood fast pouring from my veins, and must soon have succumbed, but for an unexpected chance that turned up in my favour.
“I can scarce call it chance. I am more satisfied, to think it was the hand of God.”
On pronouncing this speech the young Irishman turns his eyes towards Heaven, and stands for a time as if reflecting reverentially.
Solemn silence around tells that the attitude is respected. The hearts of all, even the rudest of his listeners, seem touched with the confidence so expressed.
“It showed itself,” he continues, “in the shape of an old comrade—one ofttimes more faithful than man himself—my staghound, Tara.
“The dog had been straying—perhaps in search of me—though I’ve since heard a different explanation of it, with which I need not trouble you. At all events, he found me; and just in time to be my rescuer.