In an instant the incidents of that story rose before me like living pictures. The death of little William's father, his cruel brothers banding together, and taking him three days' journey into the forest, just to be free of him, to let him die of hunger or what not, shutting up his only friend, his trusty dog Cæsar, at home. Their stealing away on the third night while he slept, his awakening, his long, weary waiting for their return during the day, his terror at nightfall. Then I saw him praying, as the weird sounds of the wood made his little heart quake. Then followed the unmistakable howl of the wolves, his flight hither and thither, his climbing a tree to be safe from the hideous animals, and his seeing a light while there. Next, I saw him rushing toward it, a wolf on his track, the glare of fiery eyes behind him, the pat of feet, the panting breath; the river which barred his progress, and stayed his flying, stumbling, uncertain feet; the leaping of the animal on his back, which proved to be his dear little dog Cæsar, broke loose from home, and come to find him; Cæsar's fight with a wolf which followed, and, oh, joy! his coming upon his grandmother's cottage, to home and safety. Tears rushed to my eyes as it all rose before me.
"Let us hide away in the copse," said I, for I fancied that growling, wailing sound came sweeping up to us from over the downs.
"I think if we could get out on the other side, that would be our way home," said I to my wee brother, as we groped and threaded our way.
But the other side of the copse was like this side, a tangle, a mystery; we were like two birds caught in a net. We sat down and cried bitterly.
And now there was a stirring among the bushes, and that howling, moaning, fearful sound seemed now upon us, now afar, till it lost itself in space. Crash, crash, crash, came something through the brambles and bushes, and, as by instinct, we leaped to our feet and ran. None but a child knows a child's terror: so weak, so puny, so unaccustomed to rely on itself for protection, for a means to escape from danger and peril. Hand in hand, we rushed forward like the wandering babes in the wood; now we fell, tripped up by a root of a tree; now that moan swept over us, that terrible moan more like a roar, and we were on our feet, scudding on as before.
On, on, still on—glancing over my shoulder, what did I espy but two fiery eyes gleaming through the darkness, as did poor hapless William, and the rush of some eager animal bent on prey, which would not be driven back, came distinct and clear. I did not tell Jemmy what my startled eyes beheld, but hurried him on, on—whither?
Now came the pant, pant of the creature's breath, and now—as in the story of little William—there stretched before us a stream of water. What could we do?
I glanced behind me as we halted by the river in front, into which we had well-nigh rushed.
Ah! those burning eyes were upon us, so to speak, the creature's breath fanned my cheek. Now his paws were on my shoulders to tear me down. I shrieked as to some unknown hand to save me, and Jemmy belaboured him with a stick he caught up in desperation. But the beast did not bite me, only whined out his joy, and licked my face. It was Ben, Uncle John's old dog Ben; and oh, joy! there was Uncle John himself bearing down upon us, like some giant in the gloom.
"Well, you youngsters, what have you to say for yourselves to Ben and me?" so he questioned, as we clung tightly to him, each holding a hand.