Then he turned and
stumbled back towards the house.

Instantly, Barry began to work at expanding and depressing the lungs of
the huge animal as he might have worked to bring a man back to life.

"Watch him!" whispered the doctor to Kate Cumberland. "He is closer to
that dog--that wolf, it looks like--than he has ever been to any human
being!"

She would not answer, but she turned her head quickly away from the man
and his beast.

"Are you afraid to watch?" challenged Byrne, for his anger at Barry's
blunt refusals still made his blood hot. "When your father lay at
death's door was he half so anxious as he is now? Did he work so hard,
by half? See how his eyes are fixed on the muzzle of the beast as if he
were studying a human face!"

"No, no!" breathed the girl.

"I fell you, look!" commanded the doctor. "For there's the solution of
the mystery. No mystery at all. Barry is simply a man who is closer akin
to the brute forces in nature. See! By the eternal heavens, he's
dragging that beast--that dumb beast--back from the door of death!"

Barry had ceased his rapid manipulations, and turned the big dog back
upon its side. Now the eyes of Black Bart opened, and winked shut again.
Now the master kneeled at the head of the beast and took the scarred,
shaggy head between his hands.

"Bart!" he commanded.

Not a stir in the long, black body. The stallion edged a pace closer,
dropped his velvet muzzle, and whinnied softly at the very ear of the
dog. Still, there was not an answering quiver.

"Bart!" called the man again, and there was a ring of wild grief--of
fear--in his cry.

"Do you hear?" said Byrne savagely, at the ear of the girl. "Did you
ever use such a tone with a human being? Ever?"

"Take me away!" she murmured. "I'm sick--sick at heart. Take me away!"

Indeed, she was scarcely sure of her poise, and tottered where she
stood. Doctor Byrne slipped his arm about her and led her away,
supporting half her weight. They went slowly, by small, soft steps,
towards the house, and before they reached it, he knew that she was
weeping. But if there was sadness in Byrne, there was also a great joy.
He was afire, for there is a flamelike quality in hope. Loss of blood
and the stifling smoke, rather than a mortal injury or the touch of
fire, had brought Black Bart close to death, but now that his breathing
was restored, and almost normal, he gained rapidly. One instant he
lingered on the border between life and deat