As soon as Hunsden had brought him home, and had informed me of the circumstance, I went into the yard and shot him where he lay licking his wound: he was dead in an instant; he had not seen me level the gun; I stood behind him.

I had scarcely been ten minutes in the house, when my ear was struck with sounds of anguish: I repaired to the yard once more, for they proceeded thence.
Victor was kneeling beside his dead mastiff, bent over it, embracing its bull-like neck, and lost in a passion of the wildest woe: he saw me.
"Oh, papa, I'll never forgive you! I'll never forgive you!" was his exclamation.

"You shot Yorke--I saw it from the window.

I never believed you could be so cruel--I can love you no more!" I had much ado to explain to him, with a steady voice, the stern necessity of the deed; he still, with that inconsolable and bitter accent which I cannot render, but which pierced my heart, repeated-- "He might have been cured--you should have tried--you should have burnt the wound with a hot iron, or covered it with caustic.

You gave no time; and now it is too late--he is dead!" He sank fairly down on the senseless carcase; I waited patiently a long while, till his grief had somewhat exhausted him; and then I lifted him in my arms and carried him to his mother, sure that she would comfort him best.