"They took the dog with them. I saw one lead him away. They've let him
loose, and he has scented back on the trail? That's it. Oh! if Jupiter
were but with him! No fear of their letting him off--no."
During all this time Brasfort has continued his caresses, fondling his
master's head, affectionately as a mother her child.
Again Clancy speaks, apostrophising the animal.
"Dear old dog! you're but come to see me die. Well; it's something to
have you here--like a friend beside the death-bed. And you'll stay with
me long as life holds out, and protect me from those skulking creatures?
I know you will. Ah! You won't need to stand sentry long. I feel
growing fainter. When all's over you can go. I shall never see her
more; but some one may find, and take you there. She'll care for, and
reward you for this fidelity."
The soliloquy is brought to a close, by the hound suddenly changing
attitude. All at once it has ceased its fond demonstrations, and stands
as if about to make an attack upon its master's head! Very different
the intent. Yielding to a simple canine instinct, from the strain of
terrier in its blood, it commences scratching up the earth around his
neck!
For Clancy a fresh surprise, as before mingled with pleasure. For the
hound's instinctive action shows him a chance of getting relieved, by
means he had never himself thought of.
He continues talking to the animal, encouraging it by speeches it can
comprehend. On it scrapes, tearing up the clods, and casting them in
showers behind.
Despite the firmness with which the earth is packed, the hound soon
makes a hollow around its master's neck, exposing his shoulder--the
right one--above the surface. A little more mould removed, and his arm
will be free. With that his whole body can be extricated by himself.
Stirred by the pleasant anticipation, he continues speaking
encouragement to the dog. But Brasfort needs it not, working away in
silence and with determined earnestness, as if knowing that time was an
element of success.
Clancy begins to congratulate himself on escape, is almost sure of it,
when a sound breaks upon his ear, bringing back all his apprehensions.
Again the hoof-stroke of a horse!
Richard Darke is returning!
"Too late, Brasfort!" says his master, apostrophising him in speech
almost mechanical, "Too late your help. Soon you'll see me die."