This was clearly hopeless. He pulled and tugged with all his might, but the dog unconcernedly chewed the doll.
“Oh, my babe—my poor babe!” wailed Hilary.
Whereupon Gabriel, pricked at heart, made a valiant snatch at the puppet, got it firmly by the head and succeeded in wrenching it from the very jaws of death.
“There!” he said, flinging it towards the little girl in triumph; but the triumph was short-lived, for it was now the turn of the dog, who, defrauded thus unceremoniously of his toy, seized angrily on the arm of the knight-errant.
A scream of genuine terror from Hilary brought Dr. Harford rushing from the house, and in his wake followed a grave, stately gentleman whom the little girl at once recognised as Sir Robert Harley, of Brampton Bryan. Apparently the mastiff belonged to him, for at his stern summons it came to heel obediently, while Dr. Harford began to examine his son’s arm.
“How did you anger him, child?” he asked, deftly unfastening Gabriel’s dripping sleeve.
“It was my fault, sir,” replied the boy, trying bravely to stiffen his lip. “I threw up the puppet, and then the dog worried it.”
“I trust Nero has not hurt him much,” said Sir Robert, concerned to see the wound on the small, shapely arm.
“Oh, we’ll soon set it right,” said Dr. Harford, leading the child to the house; “but with dog-bites you should never take half-measures. I must put a hot iron to it, so screw up your courage, laddie, and think how brave Cranmer thrust his hand into the flames.”
Gabriel’s heart sickened at the prospect before him, but he held up his head and stepped out more briskly, while Hilary crept after him with tearful eyes.