“Were you very much alarmed, dearest?” asked he.
“Yes,” answered she faintly; “I was almost frightened to death.”
“I do not think that he would do you any harm,” remarked Octave.
“No matter; make him go away;” and as she spoke she struck at him with her parasol. But the dog never for a moment supposed that Diana was in earnest, and, supposing that she intended to play with him, as she had often done before, began to gambol round her, barking joyously the whole time.
“But this dog evidently knows you, Diana,” observed the Viscount.
“Know me? Impossible!” and as she spoke Bruno ran up and licked her hand. “If he does, his memory is better than mine; at any rate, I am half afraid of him. Come, Octave, let us go.”
They turned away, and Octave would have forgotten all about the occurrence had not Bruno, delighted at having found an old acquaintance, persisted in following them.
“This is strange,” exclaimed the Viscount, “very strange indeed. Look here, my man,” said he, addressing a peasant, who was engaged in clipping a hedge by the roadside, “do you know whose dog this is?”
“Yes, my lord, it belongs to the young Duke of Champdoce.”
“Of course,” answered Diana, “I have often seen the dog at the Widow Rouleau’s, and have occasionally given it a piece of bread. He was always with Francoise, who ran off with that man Daumon. Oh, yes, I know him now; here, Bruno, here!”