Part 36 (1/2)

”Then chain him up again! Send Johann here.” (Johann is Harry's special servant.)

”Johann is not at home. The Herr Baron does not know what he orders.

The dog rushes at everything in its path, and tears and bites it. No one dares to go near him, not even the butcher. He must be killed.”

”What, you coward!” Harry shouts; ”my dog killed because of a little epilepsy, or whatever it is that ails him!” Meanwhile, Harry notices that his brother, who had vanished into the next room for a moment, is now attempting with a very resolute air to go out through the door leading into the hall. Harry seizes him by the shoulder and stops him: ”Where are you going?”

Vips is mute.

”What have you in your hand?”

It is Harry's revolver.

”Is it loaded?” he asks, sternly.

”Yes,” Vips replies, scarce audibly.

”Put it down there on the piano!” Harry orders, harshly. The poor boy obeys sadly, and then throws his arms around his brother.

”But you will stay here, Harry? dear Harry, you will not go near the dog?”

”You silly boy, do you suppose I am to do whatever you bid me?” Harry rejoins. And, pinning the lad's arms to his sides from behind, he lifts him up, carries him into the next room, locks him in, puts the key in his pocket, and, without another word, leaves the room. Blasius stays in the dining-room, wringing his hands, and finally engages in a wailing conversation with Vips, who is kicking violently at the door behind which he is confined. Heda, the Countess Zriny, and Frulein Laut, their backs towards the piano, upon which lies the revolver, form an interesting group, expressing in every feature terror and helplessness.

”Perhaps he may not be mad,” Countess Zriny observes, after a long silence, resolved as ever to ignore unpleasant facts. ”However, I have my eau de Lourdes, at all events.”

At this moment the rustle of a light garment is heard. The Countess looks round for Zdena, but she has vanished. Whither has she gone?

The dining-room has four doors,--one into the garden, another opposite leading into the hall, a third opening into Harry's room, and a fourth into the pantry. Through this last Zdena has slipped. From the pantry a narrow, dark pa.s.sage leads down a couple of steps into a lumber-room, which opens on the courtyard.

Zdena, when she steps into the court-yard, closes the door behind her and looks around. Her heart beats tumultuously. She hopes to reach Harry before he meets the dog; but, look where she may, she cannot see him.

Wandering clouds veil the low moon; its light is fitful, now bright, then dim. The shadows dance and fade, and outlines blend in fantastic indistinctness. The wind has risen; it shrieks and howls, and whirls the dust into the poor girl's eyes. A frightful growling sound mingles with the noise of the blast.

Zdena's heart beats faster; she is terribly afraid. ”Harry!” she calls, in an agonized tone; ”Harry!” In vain. She hears his shrill whistle at the other end of the court-yard, hears him call, commandingly, ”Hector, come here, sir!” He is far away. She hurries towards him. Hark! Her heart seems to stand still. Near her sounds the rattle of a chain; a pair of fierce bloodshot eyes glare at her: the dog is close at hand.

He sees her, and makes ready for a spring.

It is true that the girl has a revolver in her hand, but she has no idea what to do with it; she has never fired a pistol in her life. In desperate fear she clambers swiftly upon a wood-pile against the brewery wall. The dog, in blind fury, leaps at the wood, falls back, and then runs howling in another direction. The moon emerges from the clouds, and pours its slanting beams into the court-yard. At last Zdena perceives her headstrong cousin; he is going directly towards the dog.

”Hector!” he shouts; ”Hector!”

A few steps onward he comes, when Zdena slips down from her secure height. Panting, almost beside herself, the very personification of heroic self-sacrifice and desperate terror, she hurries up to Harry.

”What is it--Zdena--you?” Harry calls out. For, just at the moment when he stretches out his hand to clutch at the dog's collar, a slender figure rushes between him and the furious brute.

”Here, Harry,--the revolver!” the girl gasps, holding out the weapon.

There is a sharp report: Hector turns, staggers, and falls dead!

The revolver drops from Harry's hand; he closes his eyes. For a few seconds he stands as if turned to stone, and deadly pale. Then he feels a soft touch upon his arm, and a tremulous voice whispers,--