“At this moment of despair, I heard the faint bayings of the hound; the stag, too, heard the sound, and, springing from the ditch, drew me with him.  His efforts were now redoubled, and I could scarcely cling to him.  Yet that blessed sound came nearer and nearer!  Oh how wildly beat my heart, as I saw the hound emerge from the ravine, and spring forward with a short, quick bark, as his eye rested on his game.  I released my hold of the stag, who turned upon the new enemy.  Exhausted, and unable to rise, I still cheered the dog, that, dastard-like, fled before the infuriated animal, who, seemingly despising such an enemy, again threw himself upon me.  Again did I succeed in throwing my arms around his antlers, but not until he had inflicted several deep and dangerous wounds upon my head and face, cutting to the very bone.

“Blinded by the flowing blood, exhausted and despairing, I cursed the coward dog, who stood near, baying furiously, yet refusing to seize his game.  Oh! how I prayed for Bravo!  The thoughts of death were bitter.  To die thus in the wild forest, alone, with none to help!  Thoughts of home and friends coursed like lightning through my brain.  At that moment, when Hope herself had fled, deep and clear over the neighboring hill, came the baying of my gallant Bravo!  I should have known his voice among a thousand.  I pealed forth in one faint shout, ‘On Bravo, on!’ The next moment, with tiger-like bounds, the noble dog came leaping down the declivity, scattering the dried autumnal leaves like a whirlwind in his path.  ‘No pause he knew,’ but, fixing his fangs in the stag’s throat, he at once commenced the struggle.

“I fell back completely exhausted.  Blinded with blood, I only knew that a terrible struggle was going on.  In a few moments, all was still, and I felt the warm breath of my faithful dog, as he licked my wounds.  Clearing my eyes from gore, I saw my late adversary dead at my feet, and Bravo, ‘my own Bravo,’ as the heroine of a modern novel would say standing over me.  He yet bore around his neck a fragment of the rope with which I had tied him.  He had gnawed it in two, and, following his master through all his windings, arrived in time to rescue him from a horrible death.

“I have recovered from my wounds.  Bravo is lying at my feet.  Who does not love Bravo?  I am sure I do, and the rascal knows it—­don’t you, Bravo?  Come here, sir!”

PERILOUS ESCAPE FROM DEATH.

In the narrative of Moses Van Campen, we find the following incident related.  He was taken prisoner by the Seneca Indians, just after Sullivan’s expedition in the Revolution, on the confines of the white settlements in one of the border counties of Pennsylvania.  He was marched through the wilderness, and reached the headquarters of the savages near Fort Niagara.  Here he was recognized as having, a year or two previously, escaped, with two others, from his guard, five of whom he slew in their sleep with his own hand.