The maids, attracted by the noise, crowded the front doorway; clinging together and jabbering.

To them the Mistress called now for the Master's shotgun, from the study wall, and for a handful of shells.
She kept her head; though she saw she was powerless to save the dog she loved.

And her soul was sick within her at his peril which her puny efforts could not avert.
Running across the lawn, toward the house, she met half way the maid who came trembling forth with the gun and two shells.

Without stopping to glance at the cartridges,--nor to realize that they were filled with Number Eight shot, for quails,--she thrust two of them into the breech and, turning, fired pointblank at the sow.
Lad was down again; and the sow,--no longer in a squealing rush, but with a new cold deadliness,--was gauging the distance to his exposed throat.

The first shot peppered her shoulder; the tiny pellets scarce scratching the tough hide.
The Mistress had, halted, to fire.