But the next instant Holmes had emptied five barrels of his revolver into the creature's flank.

With a last howl of agony and a vicious snap in the air, it rolled upon its back, four feet pawing furiously, and then fell limp upon its side.

I stooped, panting, and pressed my pistol to the dreadful, shimmering head, but it was useless to press the trigger.

The giant hound was dead.
Sir Henry lay insensible where he had fallen.

We tore away his collar, and Holmes breathed a prayer of gratitude when we saw that there was no sign of a wound and that the rescue had been in time.