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.