"Oh, aunt! do you believe he will go mad?" gasps the younger lady, in a
trembling voice.

"I am afraid; I've known of cases that happened like this. One thing's
in his favor."

"And that?"

"He wasn't bit in the face, or on the hand."

"How does that matter?" demands Sharpe.

She gives him a look of scorn.

Then, ignoring her spouse, she says, as if continuing her speech to Lady
Ruth:

"The dog's teeth went through several thicknesses of woolen cloth before
entering the skin. The fabric very probably absorbed the poison. A
rattlesnake's fangs are a different thing; they cut through the cloth
and the poison is then injected from the hollow teeth or fangs."

"Oh!"

They have reached the smithy, and, standing in the door-way, witness a
singular scene.

The smith is a brawny native Maltese, with a form a Hercules might envy.
He has just taken from the fire a slender rod of iron, one end of which
is hissing hot, even red.