The first sound seemed to heat every fiery particle of the blood of the youth into madness, and open an outlet to the burning elements of his nature.  Here was something to encounter, and for her, and in her presence; and the brute had hardly crouched as if for its spring, when, with an answering cry, a man’s shout, a challenge and a charge, he sprang forward, with his unarmed strength, to the encounter.  As if cowed and overcome by the higher nature, the brute turned, and with a complaining whine like a kicked dog, ran into the depths of the woods.  Barton had momentarily, in a half frenzy, wished for a grapple, and felt a pang of real disappointment.

“The brute is a coward,” he said, as he turned back, where the white robes of Julia were dimly visible in the darkness.  She was a daughter of the Puritans, and had the blood and high courage of her race.  The first cry of the animal had almost frozen her blood, but the eager, proud, manly shout of Barton affected her like a trumpet-call.  She exulted in his dashing courage, and felt an irresistible impulse to rush forward to his aid.  It all occurred in the fraction of a moment; and when she realized that the peril was over, she was well-nigh overcome.

“You were always brave,” said Barton, cheerily, with just a little strain in his voice; “you were in no danger, and it is all over.”

No answer.

“You are not overcome?” with an anxious voice.  “Oh,” coming close to her, “if I might offer you support!”

He held out his hand, and she put hers in it.  How cool and firm his touch was, and how her tremor subsided under it!  He pulled her hand within his arm, and hers rested fully upon his, with but their light summer draperies between them.

“But a little way further,” he said, in his cheery voice, and they hurried forward.

Neither spoke.  What did either think?  The youth was sorry for the awful fright of the poor girl, and so glad of the little thing that eased his own humiliation.  The girl—­who can tell what a girl thinks?

As they reached the cleared land, a sense of relief came to Julia, who had started a dozen times, in her escape out of the woods, at imaginary sounds.  Day was still in the heavens, and the sight of her father’s house gladdened her.

“Will you mind the dew?” asked her companion.

“Not in the least,” she answered; and he led her across the pastures to the rear of an enclosure that surrounded the homestead.  He seemed to know the way, and conducted her through a large open gate, and so to a lane that led directly to the rear of the house, but a few yards distant.  He laid his hand upon the small gate that opened into it, and turning to her, said: 

“I may not intrude further upon you.  For your relief, I ought perhaps to say that the words of madness and folly which I uttered to you will neither be recalled nor repeated.  Let them lie where they fell—­under your feet.  Your father’s house, and your father’s daughter, will be sacred from me.”