Sheila held herself like a slim little cavalier. "If I go out," she said coolly, "I will not take a whip. I'll take a gun."
"And shoot my dogs?"
"Miss Blake, what else is left for us to do? We can't let them claw down the door and tear us into bits, can we?"
"You'd shoot my dogs?"
"You said yourself that we might have to shoot them."
Miss Blake gave her a stealthy and cunning look. "Take my gun, then"—her voice rose to a key that was both crafty and triumphant—"and much good it will do you! There's shot enough to kill one if you are a first-rate shot. I lost what was left of my ammunition the day I hurt my ankle. The new stuff is down at the post-office by now, I guess."
The long silence was filled by the shifting of the dog-watch outside the door.
"We must chain them up at any cost," said Sheila. Her lips were dry and felt cold to her tongue.
"Go out and do it, then." The mistress of the house leaned back and crossed her ankles.
"Miss Blake, be reasonable. You have a great deal of control over the
dogs and I have none. I am afraid of them and they will know it.
Animals always know when you're afraid…" Again she managed a smile.
"I shall begin to think you are a coward," she said.