"What is it--Zdena--you?" Harry calls out. For, just at the moment when he stretches out his hand to clutch at the dog's collar, a slender figure rushes between him and the furious brute.
"Here, Harry,--the revolver!" the girl gasps, holding out the weapon. There is a sharp report: Hector turns, staggers, and falls dead!
The revolver drops from Harry's hand; he closes his eyes. For a few seconds he stands as if turned to stone, and deadly pale. Then he feels a soft touch upon his arm, and a tremulous voice whispers,--
"Forgive me, Harry! I know how you must grieve for your poor old friend, but--but I was so frightened for you!"
He opens his eyes, and, throwing his arm around the girl, exclaims,--
"You angel! Can you for an instant imagine that at this moment I have a thought to bestow upon the dog, dearly as I loved him?"
His arm clasps her closer.
"Harry!" she gasps, distressed.
With a sigh he releases her.
In the summits of the old walnuts there soughs a wail of discontent, and the moon, which shone forth but a moment ago so brilliantly, and which takes delight in the kisses of happy lovers, veils its face in clouds before its setting, being defrauded of any such satisfaction.