—clear as noon day it seemed to be, in the intense brilliancy of the moon, and the frozen ground sparkling in the light—but nothing to be seen. We had concluded it must be the fat cook with her nightmare, or my own mare dreaming in the stable, and had returned to the fire, picturing how Quinty might come home at midnight—bleeding and hungry from the cold world to whose mercy he had mistakenly appealed—when up rose the plaintive moan again, with quick repetition—some creature in agony, beyond a doubt—and, seizing my hat, I rushed out, with a whistle of penitent vehemence, and stood listening upon the lawn. All still again.
After a look about among the sharp-edged shadows of the hemlocks, I was turning to the door for a great coat, to make a more leisurely patrol around the premises, when the sound reached me once more, coming evidently from the hill-slope above the stables. I rushed to the spot, and there lay—stretched out and moaning beneath the glaring moon—not Quinty, but the dog of all canine-ity that I had wished most dead—neighbor Currie's spotted fox-hound, that kills all our rabbits. Hatred and pity struggled in my breast. I saw in a moment (for I had heard his yelp, at intervals, all day, coming up from the inaccessible remoteness of the glen), that he had chased my innocents till he had run himself to death (as is the nature of the breed), struggling only to reach human succor in his dying
