ecause he is hurt.

There is no time for John to turn and fly, and pick up the child on the
way.

The dog is upon him.

John has only a chance to drop on his knee, and thrust his left arm
forward.

Those who are watching, and they are many, hold their breath in dread
suspense.

"Heaven preserve him!" says Lady Ruth, wringing her clasped hands in an
agony of fear.

They see the youth, he is hardly more, offer his bound arm to the beast,
and those glittering fangs at once close upon it.

Then, quick as a flash, having filled the dog's jaws, John Craig throws
himself forward, his whole effort being to crush the animal to the
ground by his weight.

It is the work of a strategist. A veteran hunter when met by a fierce
panther could not do better than this.

As John has expected, the dog, taken by surprise, does not offer the
resistance that his powerful strength would warrant, but is at once
borne backward, nor can he release his hold from the cloth-bound arm
which his teeth have seized upon.

A struggle under such circumstances must be a terrible thing, and the
shorter it can be made the better.

They see the man throw himself upon the brute; they know his other hand
has sought the animal's throat, as the only means of ending his
existence.

Prayers for his safety arise from many a heart, as the people watch the
dreadful conflict from windows, and balconies, and other places where
they have sought refuge.

The struggle is of brief duration.

John has the advantage in the contest, and the desire in his soul to
prevent this mad beast from injuring others lends him a strength beyond
what is naturally his portion.

With a grip of iron he clutches the brute's throat, and in a few moments
the dog stiffens in death.

The young medical student arises, but the ferocious brute lies there
harmless in the roadway. The smallest child in Valetta may play on the
street now and fear no evil, thanks to the love one American bears for
his mother.

Now that the danger is past, people flock out.

With the rest our tourists hasten toward the young hero. A form flies
past them with wild eyes and disheveled hair; a form that pounces upon
the little chap still crying in fright, and presses him convulsively to
her breast.

That is the mother of the child.

They rush to the spot, some to congratulate the youth who slew the dog,
others to gaze upon the horrible spectacle the animal presents as he
lies there devoid of lif