While she sat there thinking and wondering what she should do, she noticed a carriage drive up to the next door, and two gentlemen got out, followed by a young man. When the youth turned his face toward her, she started up excitedly, and holding out her hands she cried out pitifully, “It’s me; it’s Lady Jane.”
The young fellow glanced around him with a startled look; he heard the little cry, but did not catch the words, and it moved him strangely; he thought it sounded like some small creature in pain, but he only saw a little figure in a soiled pink domino standing in the next doorway, some little street gamin, he supposed, and without further notice he passed her and followed his companions up the steps.
It was the boy who gave Lady Jane the blue heron, and he had passed her without seeing her; she had called to him, and he had not heard her. This was too much, she could not bear it, and withdrawing again into her retreat she sat down and burst into a passion of tears.
For a long while she cried silently, then she fell asleep and forgot for a time all her troubles. When she woke a rude man was pulling her to her feet, and telling her to wake up and go home; he had a stick and bright buttons on his coat. “A young one tired out and gone to sleep,” he muttered, as he went on his way.
SHE CRIED OUT PITIFULLY, “IT’S LADY JANE”
Then Lady Jane began to think that that place was no longer a safe refuge; the man with the stick might come back and beat her if she remained there, so she started out and crept along close to the high buildings. She wondered if it was near night, and what she should do when it got dark. Oh, if Tante Modeste, Tiburce, or Madelon would only come for her, or Tante Pauline,—even she would be a welcome sight, and she would not run away from Raste, although she detested him; he pulled her hair and teased her, and called her “My Lady,” but still if he should come just then she would not run away from him, she would ask him to take her home.
At that moment some one behind her gave her domino a violent pull, and she looked around wildly; an imp in yellow and black was following her. A strand of her bright hair had escaped from her hood and fallen over her back; he had it in his hand, and was using it as a rein. “Get up, my little nag,” he was saying, in a rude, impertinent voice; “come, trot, trot.” At first she tried to jerk her hair away; she was so tired and frightened that she could scarcely stand, but she turned on her tormentor and bade him leave her alone.
“I’m going to pull off your mask,” he said, “and see if you ain’t Mary O’Brien.” He made a clutch at her, but Lady Jane evaded it; all the spirit in her was aroused by this assault, and the usually gentle child was transformed into a little fury. “Don’t touch me,” she cried; “don’t touch me,”—and she struck the yellow and black imp full in the face with all her strength.
Now this blow was the signal for a battle, in which Lady Jane was sadly worsted, for in a few moments the boy, who was older and of course stronger, had torn her domino from her in ribbons, had snatched off her mask, and pulled the hood from her head, which unloosened all her beautiful hair, allowing it to fall in a golden shower far below her waist, and there she stood with flashing eyes and burning cheeks, quivering and panting in the midst of a strange, rude crowd, like a little wild hunted animal suddenly brought to bay.