Melusine recognised the burly form of Captain Roding’s sergeant. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. No sooner had Trenchard crossed the threshold than a fierce barking was heard at the farther extremity of the passage, and, the next moment, a couple of mastiffs of the largest size rushed furiously towards him. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. . He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope.
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