and the man whose heel it had felt was full
in its path. One of its forefeet sank in the velvet of the doublet;
the claws of the other entered the flesh below the temple, and tore
downwards and across. With a cry as awful as the panther's scream the
Italian threw himself upon the beast and buried his poniard in its neck.
The panther and the man it had attacked went down together.

When the Indians had unlocked that dread embrace and had thrust aside
the dead brute, there emerged from the dimness of the inner room Master
Edward Sharpless, gray with fear, trembling in every limb, to take the
reins that had fallen from my lord's hands. The King's minion lay in
his blood, a ghastly spectacle; unconscious now, but with life before
him,--life through which to pass a nightmare vision. The face out of
which had looked that sullen, proud, and wicked spirit had been one
of great beauty; it had brought him exceeding wealth and power beyond
measure; the King had loved to look upon it; and it had come to this. He
lived, and I was to die: better my death than his life. In every heart
there are dark depths, whence at times ugly things creep into the
daylight; but at least I could drive back that unmanly triumph, and bid
it never come again. I would have killed him, but I would not have had
him thus.

The Italian was upon his knees beside his master: even such a creature
could love. From his skeleton throat came a low, prolonged, croaking
sound, and his bony hands strove to wipe away the blood. The Paspaheghs
drew around us closer and closer, and the werowance clutched me by the
shoulder. I shook him off. "Give the word, Sharpless," I said, "or nod,
if thou art too frightened to speak. Murder is too stern a stuff for
such a base kitchen knave as thou to deal in."

White and shaking, he would not meet my eyes, but beckoned the werowance
to him, and began to whisper vehemently; pointing now to the man upon
the floor, now to the town, now to the forest. The Indian listened,
nodded, and glided back to his fellows.

"The white men upon the Powhatan are many," he said in his own tongue,
"but they build not their wigwams upon the banks of the Pamunkey. 1 The
singing birds of the Pamunkey tell no tales. The pine splinters will
burn as brightly there, and the white men will smell them not. We will
build a fire at Uttamussac, between the red hills, before the temple and
the graves of the kings." There was a murmur of assent from his braves.