“Rupert, my little dog is restless.”
“Yes, mother? It’s an old habit with him. You feed him in season and out. No wonder he has nightmares.”
“You never liked him, I know,” she complained.
He was gentle with her petulance. Her face was stained with weariness and fear; she needed him. On all hands he was needed these last days; and the strength of him went out, buoyantly, to each new call made on him.
“I must like him for your sake, mother,” he answered lightly.
The spaniel slipped suddenly from Lady Royd’s grasp, ran barking to the window, and jumped on to the sill. All seemed quiet without, but the dog barked furiously, and would not be quieted.
Then from the courtyard a musket cracked. The bullet missed the spaniel, went droning through the room, and touched Lady Royd’s cheek in passing. She did not heed, but ran and clutched her dog.
“My little man!” she murmured, with tender foolery. “You’re not hurt? The wicked men, to shoot at a wee doggie——”
“He’s not hurt,” said Rupert sharply; “but you are, mother.”
She touched her cheek, looked at the crimson on her finger. And she was the great lady once again. “Rupert, a wasp has stung me,” she said, in her dainty, well-bred voice—“a rebel wasp. You will destroy the hive.”