“Hold me!” cried Sir David eagerly; and he bent and whispered in his sister’s ear: “Thanks, Angel; you were right—you have the better wit.”
The girl was turning radiantly to her cavalier, when there came the sound of quick breathing at the door; and there stood Darda, her hand to her panting side, her face set in an expression of bitter resentment.
“Her!” she gasped, pointing at Miss Royston—“her, to plead for him and take the credit, to feed her beastly vanity withal? She shan’t—I’ll tear her wi’ my nails first.”
Tuke stood at watch.
“Release the man, if you will, Miss Royston,” he said. “Your brother will conduct and assist you. I must stay and look after this pretty member of my household.”
As he spoke, the mad creature sprung forwards; but he was quick and caught her in his arms, where she writhed, screaming.
“Make haste,” he said—“and is it not an enviable rôle to be a keeper of wild beasts?”
Sir David hurried his sister from the room. She threw her knight a very grateful rose of gratitude over her shoulder as she went.
As they passed out, Tuke tightened his grip, almost cruelly, on the struggling girl. Suddenly she fell passive in his hands. He looked down, and she up at him, her face running with tears.
“Don’t hurt me,” she said, with a catching sob. “I will be quiet.”