"It's my hound. Miss Weems, and I guess he's on the track of that
nigger, Jim."
Oriana started as if stung by a serpent, and rising to her feet, looked
upon the man with such an expression of contempt and loathing that the
ruffian's brow grew black with anger as he returned her gaze. Harold
confronted him, and spoke in a low, earnest tone, and between his
clenched teeth:
"If you are a man you will go at once. This persecution of a woman is
beneath even your brutality. If you have an account with me, I will not
balk you. But relieve her from the outrage of your presence here."
"I guess I'd better be around," replied Rawbon, coolly, as he leaned
against the door, with his hands in his coat pocket. "That dog is
dangerous when he's on the scent. You see, Miss Weems," he continued,
speaking over Harold's shoulder, "my niggers are plaguy troublesome,
and I keep the hound to cow them down a trifle. But he wouldn't hurt a
lady, I think--unless I happened to encourage him a bit, do you see."
And the man showed his black teeth with a grin that caused Oriana to
shudder and turn away.
Harold's brow was like a thunder-cloud, from beneath which his eyes
flashed like the lightning at midnight.
"Your words imply a threat which I cannot understand. Ruffian! What do
mean?"
"I mean no good to you, my buck!"
His lip, with the deep cut upon it, curled with hate, but he still
leaned coolly against the door, though a quick ear might have caught a
click, as if he had cocked a pistol in his pocket. It was a habit with
Harold to go unarmed. Fearless and self-reliant by nature, even upon his
surveying expeditions in wild and out of the way districts, he carried
no weapon beyond sometimes a stout oaken staff. But now, his form
dilated, and the muscles of his arm contracted, as if he were about to
strike. Oriana understood the movement and the danger. She advanced
quietly but quickly to his side, and took his hand within her own.
"He is not worth your anger, Harold. For my sake, Harold, do not provoke
him further," she added softly, as she drew him from the spot.
At this moment the baying of the hound was heard, apparently in close
proximity to the hovel, and presently there was a heavy breathing and
snuffling at the threshold, followed by a bound against the door, and a
howl of rage and impatience. Nothing prevented the entrance of the
animal except the form of Rawbon, who still leaned quietly against the
rude frame, which, hanging upon leathern hinges, closed the aperture.
There was something frightful in the hoarse snarling of the angry beast,
as he dashed his heavy shoulder against the rickety framework, and
Oriana shrank nervously to Harold's side.
"Secure that dog!" he said, as, while soothing the trembling girl, he
looked over his shoulder reproachfully at Rawbon. His tone was low, and
even gentle, but it was tremulous with passion. But the man gave no
answer, and continued leering at them as before.
Arthur walked to him and spoke almost in an accent of entreaty.
"Sir, for the sake of your manhood, take away your dog and leave us."
He did not answer.
The hound, excited by the sound of voices, redoubled his efforts and his
fury. Oriana was sinking into Harold's arms.
"This must end," he muttered. "Arthur, take her from me, she's fainting.
I'll go out and brain the dog."
"Not yet, not yet," whispered Arthur. "For her sake be calm," and while
he received Oriana upon one arm, with the other he sought to stay his
friend.
But Harold seized a brand from the fire, and sprang toward the door.
"Stand from the door," he shouted, lifting the brand above Rawbon's
head. "Leave that, I say!"
Rawbon's lank form straightened, and in an instant the revolver flashed
in the glare of the fagots.
He did not shoot, but his face grew black with passion.
"By God! you strike me, and I'll set the dog at the woman."
At the sound of his master's voice, the hound set up a yell that seemed
unearthly. Harold was familiar with the nature of the species, and even
in the extremity of his anger, his anxiety for Oriana withheld his arm.
"Look you here!" continued Rawbon, losing his quiet, mocking tone, and
fairly screaming with excitement, "do you see this?" He pointed to his
mangled lip, from which, by the action of his jaws while talking, the
plaster had just been torn, and the blood was streaming out afresh. "Do
you see this? I've got that to settle with you. I'll hunt you, by G--d!
as that hound hunts a nigger. Now see if I don't spoil that pretty face
of yours, some day, so that she won't look so sweet on you for all your
pretty talk."
He seemed to calm abruptly after this, put up his pistol, and resumed
the wicked leer.
"What would you have?" at last asked Arthur, mildly and with no trace of
anger in his voice.
Rawbon turned to him with a searching glance, and, after a pause, said:
"Terms."
"What?"
"I want to make terms with you."
"About what?"
"About this whole affair."
"Well. Go on."
"I know you can hurt me for this with the law, and I know you mean to.
Now I want this matter hushed up."
Harold would have spoken, but Arthur implored him with a glance, and
answered:
"What assurance can you give us against your outrages in the future?"
"None."
"None! Then why should we compromise with you?"
"Because I've got the best hand to-night, and you know it. For her, you
know, you'll do 'most anything--now, won't you?"
The fellow's complaisant smile caused Arthur to look away with disgust.
He turned to Harold, and they were conferring about Rawbon's strange
proposition, when Oriana raised her head suddenly and her face assumed
an expression of attention, as if her ear had caught a distant sound.
She had not forgotten little Phil, and knowing his sagacity and
faithfulness, she depended much upon his having followed her
instructions. And indeed, a moment after, the plashing of the hoofs of
horses in the wet soil could be distinctly heard.
"Them's my overseer and his man, I guess," said Rawbon, with composure,
and he smiled again as he observed how effectually he had checked the
gleam of joy that had lightened Oriana's face.
"'Twas he, you see, that set the dog on Jim's track, and now he's
following after, that's all."
He had scarcely concluded, when a vigorous and excited voice was heard,
shouting: "There 'tis!--there's the hut, gentlemen! Push on!"
"It is my brother! my brother!" cried Oriana, clasping her hands with
joy; and for the first time that night she burst into tears and sobbed
on Harold's shoulder.
Rawbon's face grew livid with rage and disappointment. He flung open the
door and sprang out into the open air; but Oriana could see him pause
an instant at the threshold, and stooping, point into the cabin. The low
hissing word of command that accompanied the action reached her ear. She
knew what it meant and a faint shriek burst from her lips, more perhaps
from horror at the demoniac cruelty of the man, than from fear. The next
moment, a gigantic bloodhound, gaunt, mud-bespattered and with the froth
of fury oozing from his distended jaws, plunged through the doorway and
stood glaring in the centre of the cabin.
Oriana stood like a sculptured ideal of terror, white and immovable;
Harold with his left arm encircled the rigid form, while his right hand
was uplifted, weaponless, but clenched with the energy of despair, till
the blood-drops burst from his palm. But Arthur stepped before them both
and fixed his calm blue eyes upon the monster's burning orbs. There was
neither fear, nor excitement, nor irresolution in that steadfast
gaze--it was like the clear, straightforward glance of a father checking
a wayward child--even the habitual sadness lingered in the deep azure,
and the features only changed to be cast in more placid mold. It was
the struggle of a brave and tranquil soul with the ferocious instincts
of the brute. The hound, crouched for a deadly spring, was fascinated by
this spectacle of the utter absence of emotion. His huge chest heaved
like a billow with his labored respiration, but the regular breathing of
the being that awed him was like that of a sleeping child. For full five
minutes--but it seemed an age--this silent but terrible duel was being
fought, and yet no succor came. Beverly and those who came with him must
have changed their course to pursue the fleeing Rawbon.
"Lead her out softly, Harold," murmured Arthur, without changing a
muscle or altering his gaze. But the agony of suspense had been too
great--Oriana, with a convulsive shudder, swooned and hung like a corpse
upon Harold's arm.
"Oh, God! she is dying, Arthur!" he could not help exclaiming, for it
was indeed a counterpart of death that he held in his embrace.
Then only did Arthur falter for an instant, and the hound was at his
throat. The powerful jaws closed with a snap upon his shoulder, and you
might have heard the sharp fangs grate against the bone. The shock of
the spring brought Arthur to the ground, and man and brute rolled over
together, and struggled in the mud and gore. Harold bore the lifeless
girl out into the air, and returning, closed the door. He seized a
brand, and with both hands levelled a fierce blow at the dog's neck. The
stick shivered like glass, but the creature only shook his grisly head,
but never quit his hold. With his bare hand he seized the live coals
from the thickest of the fire and pressed them against the flanks and
stomach of the tenacious animal; the brute howled and quivered in every
limb, but still the blood-stained fangs were firmly set into the
lacerated flesh. With both hands clasped around the monster's throat, he
exerted his strength till the finger-bones seemed to crack. He could
feel the pulsations of the dog's heart grow fainter and slower, and
could see in his rolling and upheaved eyeballs that the death-pang was
upon him; but those iron jaws still were locked in the torn shoulder;
and as Harold beheld the big drops start from his friend's ashy brow,
and his eyes filming with the leaden hue of unconsciousness, the
agonizing thought came to him that the dog and the man were dying
together in that terrible embrace.
It was then that he fairly sobbed with the sensation of relief, as he
heard the prancing of steeds close by the cabin-door; and Beverly,
entering hastily, with a cry of horror, stood one moment aghast as he
looked on the frightful scene. Then, with repeated shots from his
revolver, he scattered the dog's brains over Arthur's blood-stained
bosom.
Harold arose, and, faint and trembling with excitement and exhaustion,
leaned against the wall. Beverly knelt by the side of the wounded man,
and placed his hand above his heart. Harold turned to him with an
anxious look.
"He has but fainted from loss of blood," said Beverly. "Harold, where is
my sister?"
As he spoke, Oriana, who, in the fresh night air, had recovered from her
swoon, pale and with dishevelled hair, appeared at the cabin-door.
Harold and Beverly sought to lead her out before her eyes fell upon
Arthur's bleeding form; but she had already seen the pale, calm face,
clotted with blood, but with the beautiful sad smile still lingering
upon the parted lips. She appeared to see neither Harold nor her
brother, but only those tranquil features, above which the angel of
Death seemed already to have brushed his dewy wing. She put aside
Beverly's arm, which was extended to support her, and thrust him away as
if he had been a stranger. She unloosed her hand from Harold's
affectionate grasp, and with a long and suppressed moan of intense
anguish, she kneeled down in the little pool of blood beside the
extended form, with her hands tightly clasped, and wept bitterly.
They raised her tenderly, and assured her that Arthur was not dead.
"Oh, no! oh, no!" she murmured, as the tears streamed out afresh, "he
must not die! He must not die for _me_! He is so good! so brave! A
child's heart, with the courage of a lion. Oh, Harold! why did you not
save him?"
But as she took Harold's hand almost reproachfully, she perceived that
it was black and burnt, and he too was suffering; and she leaned her
brow upon his bosom and sobbed with a new sorrow.
Beverly was almost vexed at the weakness his sister displayed. It was
unusual to her, and he forgot her weariness and the trial she had
passed. He had been binding some linen about Arthur's shoulder, and he
looked up and spoke to her in a less gentle tone.
"Oriana, you are a child to-night. I have never seen you thus. Come,
help me with this bandage."
She sighed heavily, but immediately ceased to weep, and said "Yes,"
calmly and with firmness. Bending beside her brother, without faltering
or shrinking, she gave her white fingers to the painful task.
In the stormy midnight, by the fitful glare of the dying embers, those
two silent men and that pale woman seemed to be keeping a vigil in an
abode of death. And the pattering rain and moan of the night-wind
sounded like a dirge.