“It’s gone to the quarries,” she panted. We walked on, without saying a word. Skirting the spinney, we followed the brook course, and came at last to the quarry fence. The old excavations were filled now with trees. The steep walls, twenty feet deep in places, were packed with loose stones, and trailed with hanging brambles. We climbed down the steep bank of the brook, and entered the quarries by the bed of the stream. Under the groves of ash and oak a pale primrose still lingered, glimmering wanly beside the hidden water. Emily found a smear of blood on a beautiful trail of yellow convolvulus. We followed the tracks on to the open, where the brook flowed on the hard rock bed, and the stony floor of the quarry was only a tangle of gorse and bramble and honeysuckle. “Take a good stone,” said I, and we pressed on, where the grove in the great excavation darkened again, and the brook slid secretly under the arms of the bushes and the hair of the long grass. We beat the cover almost to the road. I thought the brute had escaped, and I pulled a bunch of mountain-ash berries, and stood tapping them against my knee. I was startled by a snarl and a little scream. Running forward, I came upon one of the old, horse-shoe lime kilns that stood at the head of the quarry. There, in the mouth of one of the kilns, Emily was kneeling on the dog, her hands buried in the hair of its throat, pushing back its head. The little jerks of the brute’s body were the spasms of death; already the eyes were turning inward, and the upper lip was drawn from the teeth by pain. “Good Lord, Emily! But he is dead!” exclaimed. “Has he hurt you?” I drew her away. She shuddered violently, and seemed to feel a horror of herself. “No—no,” she said, looking at herself, with blood all on her skirt, where she had knelt on the wound which I had given the dog, and pressed the broken rib into the chest. There was a trickle of blood on her arm. “Did he bite you?” I asked, anxious. “No—oh, no—I just peeped in, and he jumped. But he had no strength, and I hit him back with my stone, and I lost my balance, and fell on him.” “Let me wash your arm.” “Oh!” she exclaimed, “isn’t it horrible! Oh, I think it is so awful.” “What?” said I, busy bathing her arm in the cold water of the brook. “This—this whole brutal affair.” “It ought to be cauterised,” said I, looking at a score on her arm from the dog’s tooth. “That scratch—that’s nothing! Can you get that off my skirt—I feel hateful to myself.” I washed her skirt with my handkerchief as well as I could, saying: “Let me just sear it for you; we can go to the Kennels. Do—you ought—I don’t feel safe otherwise.” “Really,” she said, glancing up at me, a smile coming into her fine dark eyes. “Yes—come along.” “Ha, ha!” she laughed. “You look so serious.” I took her arm and drew her away. She linked her arm in mine and leaned on me. “It is just like Lorna Doone,” she said as if she enjoyed it.