For the charging mongrel
was not five feet away.
The Mistress stood stock-still; holding her hands at a level with
her throat. She did not cry out; nor faint. That was not the
Mistress's way. Like Lad, she was thoroughbred in soul as well as
in body. And neither she nor her dog belonged to the breed of
screamers. Through her mind, in that briefest fraction of a
second whizzed the consoling thought
"He's not mad, whatever else he is. A mad dog never swerves from
his path."
But if the Mistress remained moveless, Lad did not. Seeing her
peril even more swiftly than did she, he made one lightning dive
from his perch on the car seat.
He did not leap at random. Lad's brain always worked more quickly
than did his lithe body; flyingly rapid as were that body's
motions. As he gathered himself for the spring, his campaign was
mapped out.
Down upon the charging beast swooped a furry whirlwind of
burnished mahogany-and-snow. Down it swooped with the whirring
speed and unerring aim of an eagle. Sixty-odd pounds of sinewy
weight smote the lunging mongrel, obliquely, on the left
shoulder; knocking the great brute's legs from under him and
throwing him completely off his balance.
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