At the darkest spot in the way a man sprang out suddenly before him and struck a quick blow at his head with something heavy.  But it was very dark.  The blow was aimed at his head, but fell upon the heavy padded frieze of his ulster greatcoat, grazing the brim of his hat as it passed and knocking it off his head.  Mr. Juxon staggered and reeled to one side.  At the same instant—­it all happened in the space of two seconds, Stamboul sprang past his master and his bulk, striking the squire at the shoulder just as he was staggering from the blow he had received, sent him rolling into the ditch; by the same cause the hound’s direction as he leaped was just so changed that he missed his aim and bounded past the murderer into the darkness.  Before the gigantic beast could recover himself and turn to spring again, Walter Goddard, who had chanced never to see Stamboul and little suspected his presence, leaped the ditch and fled rapidly through the dark shadow.  But death was at his heels.  Before the squire, who was very little hurt, could get upon his feet, the bloodhound had found the scent and, uttering his deep-mouthed baying note, sprang upon the track of the flying man.  Mr. Juxon got across the ditch and followed him into the gloom.

“Stamboul!  Stamboul!” he roared as he ran.  But before he had gone thirty yards he heard a heavy fall.  The hound’s cry ceased and a short scream broke the silence.

A moment later the squire was dragging the infuriated animal from the prostrate body of Walter Goddard.  Stamboul had tasted blood; it was no easy matter to make him relinquish his prey.  The cloud passed from the moon, driven before the blast, and a ray of light fell through the trees upon the scene.  Juxon stood wrestling with his hound, holding to his heavy collar with both hands with all his might.  He dared not let go for an instant, well knowing that the frenzied beast would tear his victim limb from limb.  But Juxon’s hands were strong, and though Stamboul writhed and his throat rattled he could not free himself.  The squire glanced at the body of the fallen man, just visible in the flickering moonlight.  Walter Goddard lay quite still upon his back.  If he was badly wounded it was not possible to say where the wound was.

It was a terrible moment.  Mr. Juxon felt that he could not leave the man thus, not knowing whether he were alive or dead; and yet while all his strength was exerted to the full in controlling the bloodhound, it was impossible to approach a step nearer.  He was beginning to think that he should be obliged to take Stamboul to the Hall and return again to the scene of the disaster.

“Mr. Juxon!  Juxon!  Juxon!” John was shouting as he ran up the park.

“This way! look sharp!” yelled the squire, foreseeing relief.  John’s quick footsteps rang on the hard road.  The squire called again and in a moment the young man had joined him and stood horror-struck at what he saw.