s post brought him a letter from Henry Fordyce, in
which he told him he had been meaning to write to him ever since he had
returned from France more than a month ago, but had been too occupied.
The whole epistle breathed ecstatic happiness. He was utterly absorbed
in his lady love, it was plain to be seen, and since his mind seemed so
peaceful and joyous, it was evident she must reciprocate. Well, Henry
was worthy of her--but this in no way healed the hurt. Michael violently
tore up the letter and bounded from his bed, passion boiling in him
again. He wanted to slay something; he almost wished his friend had been
an enemy that he could have gone out and fought with him and reseized
his bride. What matter that she should be unwilling--the Arranstoun
brides had often been unwilling. She had been unwilling before, and he
had crushed her resistance, and even made her eventually show him some
acquiescence and content. He could certainly do it again, and with more
chance of success, since she was a woman now and not a child, and would
better understand emotions of love.

He stood there shaking with passion. What should he do? What step should
he take? Then Binko, who had emerged from his basket, gave a tiny
half-bark--he wanted to express his sympathy and excitement. If his
beloved master was transported with rage, it was evidently the moment
for him to show some feeling also, and to go and seize by the throat man
or beast who had caused this tumult.

His round, faithful, adoring eyes were upturned, and every fat wrinkle
quivered with love and readiness to obey the smallest command, while he
snorted and slobbered with emotion. Something about him touched Michael,
and made him stoop and seize him in his arms and roll the solid mass on
the bed in rough, loving appreciation.

"You understand, old man!" he cried fondly. "You'd go for Henry or
anyone--or hold her for me"--And then the passion died out of him, as
the dog licked his hand. "But we have been brutes once too often, Binko,
and now we'll have to pay the price. She belongs to Henry, who's behaved
like a gentleman--not to us any more."

So he rang for his valet and went to his bath quietly, and thus ended
the storm of that day.

And Henry Fordyce in London was awaiting the arrival of his
well-beloved, who, with the Princess and Mr. Cloudwater, was due to be
at the Ritz Hotel that evening, when they would dine all together and
spend a time of delight.

And far away i