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