Sir John Dering’s eyes opened, and he stared up into the square, bronzed face above him with a faint smile.
“Hector ... is’t you, Hector?” he whispered. “Tell her ... the lady ... that I think ... her vengeance will end ... to-night! Which is ... very well—”
“Woman,” cried the man Hector, lifting agonised face, “if ye be true woman run for the surgeon quick, ere he die!”
“Die?” she echoed. “Aye—’twere better he died, far better for him—and for me!” So saying, she turned and sped from the room, laughing wildly as she ran.
CHAPTER I
WHICH INTRODUCES THE DOG WITH A BAD NAME
Sir John Dering, at loss for a rhyme, paused in the throes of composition to flick a speck of dust from snowy ruffle, to glance from polished floor to painted ceiling, to survey his own reflection in the mirror opposite, noting with a critical eye all that pertained to his exquisite self, the glossy curls of his great, black periwig, the graceful folds of full-skirted, embroidered coat, his sleek silk stockings and dainty, gold-buckled shoes; and discovering naught in his resplendent person to cavil at, turned back to his unfinished manuscript, sighing plaintively.
“‘Soul’!” he murmured; “a damnable word, so many rhymes to’t and none of ’em apt! Roll, coal, hole, foal, goal, pole ... a devilish word! Mole, shoal, vole—pish!”
It was at this precise juncture that the latch behind him was lifted softly and upon the threshold stood a man whose height and breadth seemed to fill the doorway, a man whose hard-worn clothes were dusty with travel, whose long, unkempt periwig, set somewhat askew, framed a lean, brown face notable for a pair of keen, blue eyes and the fierce jut of brow, cheek-bone and jaw: a shabby person, indeed, and very much at odds with the dainty luxury of the chamber before him.