It is not the odour of the dead buzzard--strong as that may be--that attracts them; but the scent of what is more congenial to their sanguinary instincts.
On arriving at the tree they run round to its opposite side; and then spring growling back, as if something they have encountered there has suddenly brought them to bay.
"A wounded bear or wolf!" is the muttered reflection of their mistress.
It has scarce passed her lips, when she is made aware of her mistake.
Above the continued baying of the dogs she can distinguish the tones of a human voice; and at the same instant, a man's head and arm appear above the spikes of the plant--a hand clutching the hilt of a long-bladed knife!.