“You wish to part from me?”

“Oh, unkind! but you must not come with me now.  It may be news of importance, dearest.  Think, Richard!”

“Tom! go back!”

At the imperious command the well-drilled Tom strides off a dozen paces, and sees nothing.  Then the precious charge is confided to him.  A heart is cut in twain.

Richard made his way to Adrian.  “What is it you want with me, Adrian?”

“Are we seconds, or principals, O fiery one?” was Adrian’s answer.  “I want nothing with you, except to know whether you have seen Benson.”

“Where should I see Benson?  What do I know of Benson’s doings?”

“Of course not—­such a secret old fist as he is!  I want some one to tell him to order Lady Blandish’s carriage to be sent round to the park-gates.  I thought he might be round your way over there—­I came upon him accidentally just now in Abbey-wood.  What’s the matter, boy?”

“You saw him there?”

“Hunting Diana, I suppose.  He thinks she’s not so chaste as they say,” continued Adrian.  “Are you going to knock down that tree?”

Richard had turned to the cypress, and was tugging at the tough wood.  He left it and went to an ash.

“You’ll spoil that weeper,” Adrian cried.  “Down she comes!  But good-night, Ricky.  If you see Benson mind you tell him.”

Doomed Benson following his burly shadow hove in sight on the white road while Adrian spoke.  The wise youth chuckled and strolled round the lake, glancing over his shoulder every now and then.

It was not long before he heard a bellow for help—­the roar of a dragon in his throes.  Adrian placidly sat down on the grass, and fixed his eyes on the water.  There, as the roar was being repeated amid horrid resounding echoes, the wise youth mused in this wise—­

“‘The Fates are Jews with us when they delay a punishment,’ says The Pilgrim’s Scrip, or words to that effect.  The heavens evidently love Benson, seeing that he gets his punishment on the spot.  Master Ricky is a peppery young man.  He gets it from the apt Gruffudh.  I rather believe in race.  What a noise that old ruffian makes!  He’ll require poulticing with The Pilgrim’s Scrip.  We shall have a message to-morrow, and a hubbub, and perhaps all go to town, which won’t be bad for one who’s been a prey to all the desires born of dulness.  Benson howls:  there’s life in the old dog yet!  He bays the moon.  Look at her.  She doesn’t care.  It’s the same to her whether we coo like turtle-doves or roar like twenty lions.  How complacent she looks!  And yet she has dust as much sympathy for Benson as for Cupid.  She would smile on if both were being birched.  Was that a raven or Benson?  He howls no more.  It sounds guttural:  frog-like—­something between the brek-kek-kek and the hoarse raven’s croak.  The fellow’ll be killing him.  It’s time to go to the rescue.  A deliverer gets more honour by coming in at the last gasp than if he forestalled catastrophe.—­Ho, there, what’s the matter?”