CHAPTER IV.
"N'ETES VOUS PAS DU PARADIS?"
Even in the silent heart of the Carpathian woods two had heard that shout of mortal extremity.
They were but a woman and a wolf-hound, resting together under the shade of the pines higher up, where the head of the torrent tumbled and splashed from rock to rock, its sheet of foam glittering in the warmth of the risen day. They heard it;and the woman rose with a stag-like grace of terror, blent with a haughty challenge of such weakness, and the dog, with his bristling mane erect, and his head lifted in the air, woke the echoes with a deep-mouthed bay. Both listened—all was still;—then she laid her hand on the hound's shaggy coat, and gave him a single word of command. He waited, suiting the scent borne to him on the wind, then, with his muzzle to the earth, sprang off; she followed him; the lights and shadows from the pine boughs above flung, flickering and golden, on her
