It was the voice of Dagobert, who was exhausting himself in desperate exertions to force open the door that concealed this sanguinary struggle.  “Jovial!” cried the soldier, “I am here.  Help!  Help!”

At the sound of that friendly and well-known voice, the poor animal, almost at its last gasp, strove to turn its head in the direction whence came the accents of his master, answered him with a plaintive neigh, and, sinking beneath the efforts of the panther, fell prostrate, first on its knees, then upon its flank, so that its backbone lay right across the door, and still prevented its being opened.  And now all was finished.  The panther, squatting down upon the horse, crushed him with all her paws, and, in spite of some last faint kicks, buried her bloody snout in his body.

“Help! help! my horse!” cried Dagobert, as he vainly shook the door.  “And no arms!” he added with rage; “no arms!”

“Take care!” exclaimed the brute-tamer, who appeared at the window of the loft; “do not attempt to enter it might cost you your life.  My panther is furious.”

“But my horse! my horse!” cried Dagobert, in a voice of agony.

“He must have strayed from his stable during the night, and pushed open the door of the shed.  At sight of him the panther must have broken out of her cage and seized him.  You are answerable for all the mischief that may ensue,” added the brute-tamer, with a menacing air; “for I shall have to run the greatest danger, to make Death return to her den.”

“But my horse! only save my horse!” cried Dagobert, in a tone of hopeless supplication.

The Prophet disappeared from the window.

The roaring of the animals and the shouts of Dagobert, had roused from sleep every one in the White Falcon.  Here and there lights were seen moving and windows were thrown open hurriedly.  The servants of the inn soon appeared in the yard with lanterns, and surrounding Dagobert, inquired of him what had happened.

“My horse is there,” cried the soldier, continuing to shake the door, “and one of that scoundrel’s animals has escaped from its cage.”

At these words the people of the inn, already terrified by the frightful roaring, fled from the spot and ran to inform the host.  The soldier’s anguish may be conceived, as pale, breathless, with his ear close to the chink of the door, he stood listening.  By degrees the roaring had ceased, and nothing was heard but low growls, accompanied by the stern voice of the Prophet, repeating in harsh, abrupt accents:  “Death! come here!  Death!”

The night was profoundly dark, and Dagobert did not perceive Goliath, who, crawling carefully along the tiled roof entered the loft by the attic window.

And now the gate of the court-yard was again opened, and the landlord of the inn appeared, followed by a number of men.  Armed with a carbine, he advanced with precaution; his people carried staves and pitchforks.