He thanked me, but coldly. The man had many qualities, but he could not hide his feelings. A mere stranger could have seen that he hated me, and hated worse to see me with Princess Flavia; yet I am persuaded that he tried to conceal both feelings, and, further, that he tried to persuade me that he believed I was verily the King. I did not know, of course; but, unless the King were an impostor, at once cleverer and more audacious than I (and I began to think something of myself in that role), Michael could not believe that. And, if he didn’t, how he must have loathed paying me deference, and hearing my “Michael” and my “Flavia!”
“Your hand is hurt, sire,” he observed, with concern.
“Yes, I was playing a game with a mongrel dog” (I meant to stir him), “and you know, brother, such have uncertain tempers.”
He smiled sourly, and his dark eyes rested on me for a moment.
“But is there no danger from the bite?” cried Flavia anxiously.
“None from this,” said I. “If I gave him a chance to bite deeper, it would be different, cousin.”
“But surely he has been destroyed?” said she.
“Not yet. We’re waiting to see if his bite is harmful.”
“And if it is?” asked Michael, with his sour smile.
“He’ll be knocked on the head, brother,” said I.