Strange that things beautiful should be terrible and deadly' The eye of the boa-constrictor, while fascinating its prey, is lovely. No royal crown holds such a jewel; it is a ruby with the emerald's green light playing ever upon it. Yet the deer that sees it loses all power of motion, and trembles, and awaits his death and even so, to compare hearing with sight, this sweet and mellow sound seemed to fascinate Martin Wittenhaagen. He stood uncertain, bewildered, and unnerved. Gerard was little better now. Martin's last words had daunted him, He had struck an old man and shed his blood, and, by means of that very blood, blood's four-footed avenger was on his track. Was not the finger of Heaven in this? Whilst the men were thus benumbed, the woman's brain was all activity. The man she loved was in danger. “Lend me your knife,” said she to Martin. He gave it her. “But 'twill be little use in your hands,” said he. Then Margaret did a sly thing. She stepped behind Gerard, and furtively drew the knife across her arm, and made it bleed freely; then stooping, smeared her hose and shoes; and still as the blood trickled she smeared them; but so adroitly that neither Gerard nor Martin saw. Then she seized the soldier's arm. “Come, be a man!” she said, “and let this end. Take us to some thick place, where numbers will not avail our foes.” “I am going,” said Martin sulkily. “Hurry avails not; we cannot shun the hound, and the place is hard by;” then turning to the left, he led the way, as men go to execution. He soon brought them to a thick hazel coppice, like the one that had favoured their escape in the morning. “There,” said he, “this is but a furlong broad, but it will serve our turn.” “What are we to do?” “Get through this, and wait on the other side; then as they come straggling through, shoot three, knock two on the head, and the rest will kill us.” “Is that all you can think of?” said Gerard. “That is all.” “Then, Martin Wittenhaagen, I take the lead, for you have lost your head. Come, can you obey so young a man as I am?” “Oh, yes, Martin,” cried Margaret, “do not gainsay Gerard! He is wiser than his years.” Martin yielded a sullen assent. “Do then as you see me do,” said Gerard; and drawing his huge knife, he cut at every step a hazel shoot or two close by the ground, and turning round twisted them breast-high behind him among the standing shoots. Martin did the same, but with a dogged hopeless air. When they had thus painfully travelled through the greater part of the coppice, the bloodhound's deep bay came nearer and nearer, less and less musical, louder and sterner. Margaret trembled. Martin went down on his stomach and listened. “I hear a horse's feet.” “No,” said Gerard; “I doubt it is a mule's. That cursed Ghysbrecht is still alive: none other would follow me up so bitterly.” “Never strike your enemy but to slay him,” said Martin gloomily. “I'll hit harder this time, if Heaven gives me the chance,” said Gerard.