A noise at the window, a flutter of silk, and Chaleco stood by me.
“No, madam,” he said, “she shall go because it is the will of her people; but as for that old man, touch but the dog he loves at your peril!”
“What are you?” faltered the lady, gathering up her spaniel in an agony of terror. “How came you in this place?”
“I have been here before,” said Chaleco.
“When?”
“On the night Lord Clare’s wife died.” He stooped down whispering the words in her ear. “If a hair of that old man’s head suffers for his kindness to this child, I will come again.”
“I promise,” she faltered.
“Bah, I want no promise; your white face is truer than a false tongue. You dare not touch him—we of the Caloes have soft steps and potent drinks. We know how to wait, but in the end those who tread on us are stung.”
“You need not tell me that,” she answered bitterly, struggling with her terror.
“Be cautious then; you who owe this vast property to us should be considerate!”