“It is murder; nothing else,” I shouted; and taking advantage of my captors’ surprise, I broke from them and rushed back into the room to Gatrina and my poor Chris.
“Is he dead?” I asked her.
She looked up and I read the truth by the tears in her eyes.
“Poor, faithful Chris,” she murmured, with a deep sigh, as her hand gently caressed the great head.
I could not speak. I had loved the dog so well—and never better than in the manner of his death. I bent over him for a moment with a feeling of irreparable loss, as at the death of a friend.
“He gave his life for me, Bourgwan. Poor old comrade,” murmured Gatrina using, unconsciously I think, the old term.
In that moment the tie of our common sorrow for the dog’s death brought us as close together as even in those past days in the hills.
I made no reply. I could not. I was tongue-tied by the hampering rush of mingled emotions.
CHAPTER XXVII.
MY DEFENCE.
The grip of a hand on my shoulder roused me from my reverie. A couple of soldiers stood one on either side of me; and as I turned I saw the red brute of a captain being supported out of the room. The officer who had arrived last had taken command and was sitting at a table with the lieutenant standing at his side. With much relief I recognised him at once. He was a Major Kireef whom I had met at the Palace reception.