Cyril
shrank to a quivering little heap of abject terror, at sight of
the indistinct animal shape looming mountain-high above
This for the briefest moment. Then back went Lad's head in a
pealing bark that seemed to fill the world and to reecho from a
myriad directions at once. Again and again, Lad gave clamorous
voice to his discovery of the lost child.
On a clear or windless night, his racket must have penetrated to
the dullest ears at the Place, and far beyond. For the bark of a
dog has more carrying power than has any other sound of double
its volume. But, in the face of a sixty-mile gale laden with tons
of flying snow, the report of a cannon could scarce have carried
over the stretch of windswept ground between the ravine and the
Place.
Lad seemed to understand this. For, after a dozen thunderous
barks, he fell silent; and stood again, head on one side, in
thought.
At first sound of the barking, Cyril had recognized the dog. And
his terror had vanished. In its place surged a peevish irritation
against the beast that had so frightened him.
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