“I say, Stephen,” asked Roscius rather uneasily, “what think you did become of that cat of hers? The thing was never seen after she died—not once. It looks queer, you know.”
“Does it?” said Stephen, with a little laugh.
“Why, yes! I don’t want to think any ill of the poor old soul—not I, indeed: but never to be seen once afterwards—it does look queer. Do you think Sathanas took the creature?”
“Not without I am Sathanas. That terrible cat that so troubles you, Roscius, sits purring on my hearth at this very moment.”
“You! Why, did you take the thing with you?”
“We did. It came away in Ermine’s arms.”
“Eh, Saint Frideswide be our aid! I wouldn’t have touched it for a king’s ransom.”
“I’ve touched it a good few times,” said Stephen, laughing, “and it never did aught worse to me than rub itself against me and mew. Why, surely, man! you’re not feared of a cat?”
“No, not of a real cat; but that—”
“It is just as real a cat as any other. My children play with it every day; and if you’ll bring your little maids, I’ll lay you a good venison pasty that they are petting it before they’ve been in the house a Paternoster. Trust a girl for that! Ah, yes! that was one reason why I thought she had some fancy of what was coming—the poor soul begged us to take old Gib. He’d been her only companion for years, and she did not want him ill-used. Poor, gentle, kindly soul! Ermine will be grieved to hear of her end.”