Other shouts behind her rent the air, gathering to a roar, from the breasts of men and women.  ‘Mad dog about’ had been for days the rumour, crossing the hills over the line of village, hamlet, farm, from Cardiff port.

Dead hush succeeded the burst.  Men and women stood off.  The brute was at the lady.

Her arms were straight above her head; her figure overhanging, on a bend of the knees.  Right and left, the fury of the slavering fangs shook her loose droop of gown; and a dull, prolonged growl, like the clamour of a far body of insurrectionary marching men, told of the rage.

Fleetwood hovered helpless as a leaf on a bough.

‘Back—­’, I pray,’ she said to him, and motioned it, her arms at high stretch.

He held no weapon.  The sweat of his forehead half blinded him.  And she waved him behind her, beckoned to the crowd to keep wide way, used her lifted hands as flappers; she had all her wits.  There was not a wrinkle of a grimace.  Nothing but her locked lips betrayed her vision of imminent doom.  The shaking of her gown and the snarl in the undergrowl sounded insatiate.

The brute dropped hold.  With a weariful jog of the head, it pursued its course at an awful even swinging pace:  Death’s own, Death’s doer, his reaper,—­he, the very Death of the Terrors.

Carinthia’s cry rang for clear way to be kept on either side, and that accursed went the path through a sharp-edged mob, as it poured pell-mell and shrank back, closing for the chase to rear of it.

‘Father taught me,’ she said to the earl, not more discomposed than if she had taken a jump.

‘It’s over!’ he groaned, savagely white, and bellowed for guns, any weapons.  ‘Your father? pray?’ She was entreated to speak.

‘Yes, it must be shot; it will be merciful to kill it,’ she said.  ’They have carried the child indoors.  The others are safe.  Mr. Woodseer, run to my nurse-girl, Martha.  He goes,’ she murmured, and resumed to the earl:  ’Father told me women have a better chance than men with a biting dog.  He put me before him and drilled me.  He thought of everything.  Usually the poor beast snaps—­one angry bite, not more.  My dress teased it.’

Fleetwood grinned civilly in his excitement; intending to yield patient hearing, to be interested by any mortal thing she might choose to say.

She was advised by recollection to let her father rest.

‘No, dear girl, not hurt, no scratch,—­only my gown torn,’ she said to Madge; and Madge heaved and whimpered, and stooped to pin the frayed strips.  ’Quite safe; you see it is easy for women to escape, Mr. Edwards.’

Carinthia’s voice hummed over the girl’s head

’Father made me practise it, in case.  He forethought.  Madge, you heard of this dog.  I told you how to act.  I was not feverish.  Our babe will not feel it.’

She bade Madge open her hands.  ’A scratch would kill.  Never mind the tearings; I will hold my dress.  Oh! there is that one child bitten.  Mr. Edwards, mount a man for the doctor.  I will go in to the child.  He was bitten.  Lose not one minute, Mr. Edwards.  I see you go.’