To Clancy there is nothing strange in Darke's sudden and terrified
departure. With the quickness of thought itself, he comprehends its
cause. In their encounter under the live-oak, in shadow and silence,
his old rival has not recognised him. Nor can he since have seen
Borlasse, or any of the band. Why he is behind them, Clancy cannot
surmise; though he has a suspicion of the truth. Certainly Darke came
not there by any design, but only chance-conducted. Had it been
otherwise, he would not have gone off in such wild affright.
All this Clancy intuitively perceives, on the instant of his turning to
retreat. And partly to make this more sure, though also stirred by
indignation he cannot restrain, he eends forth that shout, causing the
scared wretch to flee faster and farther.
Now that he is gone, Clancy is again left to his reflections, but little
less gloomy than before. From only one does he derive satisfaction.
The robber chief must have lied. Helen Armstrong has not been in the
arms of Richard Darke.--He may hope she has reached her home in safety.
All else is as ever, and soon likely to be worse. For he feels as one
who has only had a respite, believing it will be but short. Darke will
soon recover from his scare. For he will now go to the rendezvous, and
there, getting an explanation of what has caused it, come back to glut
his delayed vengeance, more terrible from long accumulation.
Will the wolves wait for him?
"Ha! there they are again!"
So exclaims the wretched man, as he sees them once more making approach.
And now they draw nigh with increased audacity, their ravenous instincts
but strengthened by the check. The enemy late dreaded has not molested
them, but gone off, leaving their prey unprotected. They are again free
to assail, and this time will surely devour it.
Once more their melancholy whine breaks the stillness of the night, as
they come loping up one after another. Soon all are re-assembled round
the strange thing, which through their fears has long defied them. More
familiar, they fear it less now.
Renewing their hostile demonstration, they circle about it, gliding from
side to side in _chassez-croissez_, as through the mazes of a cotillon.
With forms magnified under the moonlight, they look like werewolves
dancing around a "Death's Head,"--their long-drawn lugubrious wails
making appropriate music to the measure!
Horror for him who hears, hearing it without hope. Of this not a ray
left now, its last lingering spark extinguished, and before him but the
darkness of death in all its dread certainty--a death horrible,
appalling!
Putting forth all his moral strength, exerting it to the utmost, he
tries to resign himself to the inevitable.
In vain. Life is too sweet to be so surrendered. He cannot calmly
resign it, and again instinctively makes an effort to fright off his
hideous assailants. His eyes rolling, scintillating in their sockets--
his lips moving--his cries sent from between them--are all to no purpose
now. The coyotes come nearer and nearer. They are within three feet of
his face. He can see their wolfish eyes, the white serrature of their
teeth, the red panting tongues; can feel their fetid breath blown
against his brow. Their jaws are agape. Each instant he expects them
to close around his skull!
Why did he shout, sending Darke away? He regrets having done it.
Better his head to have been crushed or cleft by a tomahawk, killing him
at once, than torn while still alive, gnawed, mumbled over, by those
frightful fangs threatening so near! The thought stifles reflection.
It is of itself excruciating torture. He cannot bear it much longer.
No man could, however strong, however firm his faith in the Almighty.
Even yet he has not lost this. The teachings of early life, the
precepts inculcated by a pious mother, stand him in stead now. And
though sure he must die, and wants death to come quickly, he
nevertheless tries to meet it resignedly, mentally exclaiming:--
"Mother! Father! I come. Soon shall I join you. Helen, my love! Oh,
how I have wronged you in thus throwing my life away! God forgive--"
His regrets are interrupted, as if by God Himself. He has been heard by
the All-Merciful, the Omnipotent; for seemingly no other hand could now
succour him. While the prayerful thoughts are still passing through his
mind, the wolves suddenly cease their attack, and he sees them retiring
with closed jaws and fallen tails! Not hastily, but slow and
skulkingly; ceding the ground inch by inch, as though reluctant to leave
it.
What can it mean?
Casting his eyes outward, he sees nothing to explain the behaviour of
the brutes, nor account for their changed demeanour.
He listens, all ears, expecting to hear the hoof-stroke of a horse--the
same he late saw reined up in front of him, with Richard Darke upon his
back. The ruffian is returning sooner than anticipated.
There is no such sound. Instead, one softer, which, but for the hollow
cretaceous rock underlying the plain and acting as a conductor, would
not be conveyed to his ears. It is a pattering as of some animal's
paws, going in rapid gait. He cannot imagine what sort of creature it
may be; in truth he has no time to think, before hearing the sound close
behind his head, the animal approaching from that direction. Soon after
he feels a hot breath strike against his brow, with something still
warmer touching his cheek. It is the tongue of a dog!
"Brasfort!"
Brasfort it is, cowering before his face, filling his ears with a soft
whimpering, sweet as any speech ever heard. For he has seen the jackals
retreat, and knows they will not return. His strong stag-hound is more
than a match for the whole pack of cowardly creatures. As easily as it
has scattered, can it destroy them.
Clancy's first feeling is one of mingled pleasure and surprise. For he
fancies himself succoured, released from his earth-bound prison, so near
to have been his grave.
The glad emotion is alas! short-lived; departing as he perceives it to
be only a fancy, and his perilous situation, but little changed or
improved. For what can the dog do for him? True he may keep off the
coyotes, but that will not save his life. Death must come all the same.
A little later, and in less horrid shape, but it must come. Hunger,
thirst, one or both will bring it, surely if slowly.
"My brave Brasfort! faithful fellow!" he says apostrophising the hound;
"You cannot protect me from them. But how have you got here?"