He feinted, dropped the bridle, and pretended to draw aside. But the next moment he took a rapid step forward, threw up his arm, and sent the revolver flying through the air. It alighted on the thick grass, without exploding. It happened that the gaunt hound which had disputed Julia's passage at the beginning of her call, having finished the roast of beef in a further corner of the yard, was passing that moment on his way back to the kitchen porch, his hunger doubtless still unappeased. He was a brute used to sudden foray and quick brawls, and this movement of his master towards the horsewoman seemed to him a signal--a call to battle. So, as Marston deftly disarmed Julia, the dog promptly leaped at The Prince's front with a savage roar. The wonder is the poor girl kept her senses, but this attack of the dog was her salvation. The sensitive animal which she rode reared and swerved with the agility of a cat, eluding the hound's spring and colliding with Marston, who was sent sprawling upon the ground. The way to safety was clear! She touched The Prince's side with her heel, drew up her reins, and told him to go in a low voice of entreaty. But he needed no urging. Down the yard they flew, and Julia put him at the fence, for there was no time to be lost with the narrow gate. He went over the barrier with the ease and grace of a swallow, and on towards the road. The farm gate letting onto the pike she had left open, and as she dashed through it she almost ran into a buggy coming from the direction of town, with a man in it. The Prince swerved around the obstacle--he was running at last, and his rider made no attempt to restrain him--and was gone down the white limestone road like a greyhound in chase.