"Let us see what he will do."
The dog has taken no heed of her call, but crouches nearer the bushes, bristling all over. Then suddenly he makes a dive into their midst, disappearing from view.
This is followed by a series of shrill barks—the sound as of a dog fighting for its life—a skirmish—a hideous yell—and then—silence.
"Something has killed him!" whispers Eleanor under her breath.
"We had better get on," replies Quinton; "it may be some dangerous beast."
"What! ride off, and perhaps leave the wretched dog mangled and maimed to crawl away and starve? Carol! what are you thinking of?"
She springs to the ground, flings him her reins, and before he realises what she is going to do, rushes into the bushes after her pet.
"Eleanor, are you mad?" he thunders, already picturing her devoured by some fierce beast.
It is a moment of horrible suspense. Then she emerges, her face scratched by the low boughs, bearing tenderly the limp body of the terrier, torn and bleeding.