“You see, uncle, I was just looking at that photograph.”
“Ah, yes! Me and my assistants, Wilhelm, Karl, and Johann. And this is Macbeth, my pupil. It’s very like him. What do you think of it, Emma?”
He had put the photograph under his ward’s eyes and pointed out to her a man close-shaven in the American way, slim, short and young, with a distinguished bearing, who had his hand on the back of the St. Bernard dog.
“A handsome, intelligent fellow, eh?” said the Professor in a mocking voice. “The ace of Scots!”
Emma never changed her look of terror. She articulated with difficulty:
“His Nelly was very amusing with her performing-dog tricks.”
“And Macbeth,” said my uncle in a jesting voice. “Was he amusing?”
There were symptoms of tears coming, and I saw Emma’s chin quiver. She murmured:
“Poor Macbeth!”
“Yes,” said Lerne to me by way of answer to my puzzled looks, “Mr. Donovan Macbeth had to give up his duties as a result of some unfortunate occurrences. May Fate spare you such unhappiness, Nicolas!”