ut 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 rescu