And the master laughed, seeing she was little hurt. This mother of his was a Royd among them, after all. She had not thought of danger as she snatched her spaniel from the window, had not winced when the bullet seared her cheek. In the quiet, royal way, she gave her quarrel into his hands and trusted him to take it up.
“What’s agate, master?” asked Simon Foster, coming in to learn the meaning of the musket-shot.
“I can’t tell you, Simon. All was quiet outside——”
“Not if the dog heard something,” said the other shrewdly. “He’s sharper ears than you or me.”
He lifted his head cautiously above the sill and listened. There was silence absolute in the courtyard, and within doors only the tick-tack of the eight-day clock in the hall, the whimpering of the spaniel. Whatever Goldstein’s project had been, it was delayed by the dog’s unexpected challenge.
Simon scented danger on this side of the house, however, and would not get back to his post. And a half-hour later his patience was rewarded.
“I guess what they’re at,” he said, turning with a slow grin. “My lady—meaning no disrespect—you’d best keep your lile dog’s tongue still, or he’ll spoil our sport.”
Lady Royd was learning obedience these days. “Are they your orders, Rupert?” she said submissively.
“Yes, mother, yes. Get back to your warm room. You’ll take a chill out here.”
She turned at the door, glanced at him with a whimsical, queer air of raillery. “You men are built after the one pattern. You need us women till there’s something worth while in the doing, and then—why, then, my dear, you send us straight to bed, like naughty children.”