At his feet was stretched the huge carcass of the dog. The gash across his throat, from which the blood was streaming over the floor, had been inflicted by the hand of the colonel, in the extremest moment of his despair. Cain had fought his last battle. As Tarleton shook the bloody knife over his head, the brave old dog uttered his last moan and died. "It will not do, my child--it will not do," and Tarleton burst into a loud and unnatural laugh. "You must go with me! With me; alive or dead." He rushed towards Gulian, brandishing the knife. "Oh, you d----d wretch! do you know that I've a notion to cut you into pieces, limb by limb?" "Mercy! mercy!" shrieked the boy, falling on his knees, as that face, dabbled in blood, and writhing, as with madness, in every feature, _glowered_ over him. But Tarleton did not strike. He placed his hand upon his forehead, and made a desperate effort to recall his shattered senses. Suffering intolerable physical agony, he was yet firm in the purpose which had led him to the old mansion. "If I can get this boy to the carriage, all will yet be well!" he muttered. "I'll faint soon from loss of blood; but not until this boy is in my power. Brain, do not fail me now!" He dropped the bloody knife upon the carcass of the dog; and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he bound it tightly around his throat. Then, lifting his cloak from the floor, he wound it about him, and writhed with pain, as it touched the wound on his shoulder. "Now will you go with me alive, or dead?" He lifted the knife again, and advanced to Gulian. "Take your choice. If your choice is life,"--he could not refrain a cry of pain--"take the light and go on before me!" Trembling in every limb, his gaze riveted to the face of Tarleton, Gulian took the light, and crossed the threshold of the room. Tarleton followed him with measured step, still clutching the knife in his right hand. "On--on!" muttered Tarleton; "attempt to escape, and I strike,--on--," and he reeled like a drunken man, and fell insensible at Gulian's feet. CHAPTER II. RANDOLPH AND HIS BROTHER. The hour of dawn drew near, Randolph was in his own chamber, seated by his bed, watching the face of the sleeper, who was slumbering there. A singular look passed over Randolph's visage, as he held the candle over the sleeper's face,--a look hard to define or analyze, for it seemed to indicate a struggle between widely different emotions. There was compassion and revenge, brotherly love and mortal hatred in that look. For the sleeper was Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal. The candle burned near and nearer to its socket,--the morning light began to mingle with its fading rays,--and still Harry slept on, and still Randolph watched, his eyes fixed on his brother's visage, and his own face disturbed by opposing emotions. It was near morning when Harry woke.