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117 himself down to rest in the welcome shelter of a canebrake. Here he lay still and unmolested until near noon, when he heard the bay of the leader of the hounds, which had separated from the others, and reached the stream. In he dashed; again he crossed; and came on through the rustling cane. Charles's heart beat wildly—he shuddered; but it was only for a moment. Drawing his knife, he waited in silence the coming of his savage foe. The animal approached, and, for a moment, shrank beneath the acknowledged supremacy which flashes in the eye of man. Charles seized that moment; and, catching the dog by the neck, buried the knife in his throat. He gave a low bay and all was over.

Charles had saved himself for a short time, but at a great risk, for when his pursuers discovered the dog, they would be certain that the Fugitive was near. Just then, as he heard the baying of the dead hound's companions, there was a rustling near him in another direction, and a grealgreat [sic] animal of the wolf kind appeared, falling upon the dead dog to devour him. Charles, recrossing the brook as noiselessly as possible, pressed on until he was compelled to rest from pure exhaustion.

He remained until he was aware by the quiet around that his pursuers were gone. Thanking God in his heart for his preservation, he pursued his toilsome way until he found a place of rest on the free shores of