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