“Father, what are you doing?” he shouted, tore the whip from his hand, and wanted to go after the dog, but before he could reach the struggling group the beast, strangled by the powerful hand of the giant, lay on the ground stretching out its four paws. The blood ran down from Douglas’s arm and neck. His anger seemed over. He remained standing still, wiping his hands with his pocket-handkerchief, and said, with a good-natured smile, “The poor beast has had to pay for it.” “You are wounded, Mr. Douglas!” Paul cried, clasping his hands. “He has taken my neck for a joint of veal,” he said. “Come with me for a few steps, and help me to wash myself, so that my womenkind may not be too much frightened.” “Forgive him,” Paul entreated; “he did not know what he was doing.” “Will you come back, you wretch?” shrieked his father’s voice from the yard. “I suppose you want to make common cause with that forsworn scoundrel!” There was a convulsive twitch in his neighbor’s clinched fists; but he mastered himself, and said with a forced smile, “Go back; the son ought to stay with the father.” “But I want to make amends,” Paul stammered. “The swindler, the rogue,” was heard from the background. “Go back,” said Douglas, with set teeth; “make him keep quiet, or he will do for himself.” Then he began to whistle a march with all his might, in order not to hear the abuse, and walked off with a measured tread. The old man was raging in the yard like a madman; he threw the stones about, swung the cart-pole in the air, and kicked with his feet right and left. When he met Paul he wanted to seize him by the throat, but at that moment his mother rushed out of doors with a piercing cry and threw herself between them. She clung to Paul with both arms; she wanted to speak, but the fear of her husband lamed her tongue. She could only look at him. “Pack of women!” he cried, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, and turned away; but feeling obliged to vent his rage on somebody, he walked up to Michel Raudszus, who was slowly returning to his work. “You dog, what are you gaping here for?” he shouted at him. “I am working, sir,” he answered, and gave him a cutting glance from under his black brows. “What should prevent me, you dog, from grinding you to powder?” the old man shrieked, shaking his fists under his nose. The servant shrank back, and at that moment both his master’s fists struck him in the face. He staggered back--every drop of blood left his dark face; without uttering a sound, he seized upon an axe. But at this moment, Paul, who had been watching the scene with growing anxiety, grasped his arm from behind, wrested the weapon from his hand, and threw it into the well. His father tried to clutch the servant by the throat again, but with quick resolution Paul seized him round the body, and although the old man kicked and struggled, gathering up all strength, carried him in his arms into the parlor, the door of which he locked from the outside.