close by breathing hard, with his
hand pressed upon his shoulder.

"Are you there, Dal?" cried Abel anxiously, for his cousin was invisible
in the darkness.

"Yes, yes, I'm here," said Dallas, in a strange tone of voice.

"What is it, my son?" cried Tregelly anxiously.

"I'm afraid I'm hurt," said Dallas, stooping to recover his rifle. "He
struck me on the shoulder with his right hand, and the place is numbed.
I can feel nothing there but a smarting pain; but it bleeds, and the
cloth is cut."

Tregelly caught him up in his arms as if he were a child, bore him into
the hut, threw him on the bed, and tore off his jacket so as to expose
the place to the light.

"Yes, he has knifed you, my son," said Tregelly hoarsely; "but it's a
mere scratch. He meant it, though, but reached over a bit too far."

"You are saying this to calm me," said Dallas excitedly. "He struck me
a tremendous blow."

"Yes, my son; but it must have been with his wrist. I'm not cheating
you. It's the simple truth. It isn't worth tying up."

"Thank God!" sighed Dallas. "I suppose I'm a bit of a coward, but the
horror of it made me feel sick as a dog."

"Such a crack as he must have given you would have made me feel sick, my
son. Did it knock you down?"

"No; I closed with him, but he tripped and threw me heavily."

"Well, that would make you feel sick, my son, without anything else.
Here, on with your jacket again, and let's get out into the darkness.
It's like asking the beggar to come and pot us, standing here."

They hurried out directly after, to stand listening; but all was still.

"Now then," said Tregelly, "we'd best get the sledge and make our way
home; but what do you think of my gentleman now? Oughtn't we to scrunch
him like one would a black beetle?"

"Yes," said Abel fiercely, "and the first time we can. But where's the
dog? Can that be he in the distance?"

A faint baying sound, followed by what sounded like revolver shots,
several in succession, was heard. Then once more all was still for a
few moments, when the firing began again.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

WHEN SLEEP IS MASTER.

"Hear that?" cried Abel excitedly. "The scoundrel! The ruffian! He's
firing at the dog."

"Yes, my son," said Tregelly quietly; "and I'm not surprised, for old
Scruff can be pretty nasty when he likes."

"But you don't stir. Are we going to stand here and listen to that poor
brute being murdered?"

"It would be about ma