He saw the club over him, a short, thick club, in the hand of Thoreau himself.

After that followed darkness and oblivion, punctuated by the CRACK, CRACK, CRACK of a revolver and the howling of dogs--sounds that grew fainter and fainter until they died away altogether, and he sank into the stillness of night.
It was almost dark when consciousness stirred Philip again.

With an effort he pulled himself to his knees, and stared about him.

Josephine was gone, the dogs were gone.

He staggered to his feet, a moaning cry on his lips.