his much-deferred breakfast, always a rather late
function in that house; and the Master had no wish to prolong a
situation of unmitigated wretchedness to himself.

They parted in the big hall, the Master and Finn, among the dim
portraits of somebody's ancestors and the armour which came from a
street near Regent's Park. Finn had been eyeing the Master with
desperate anxiety for some time past. At frequent intervals he had
nervously wagged his tail, and even made a pretence of gaiety, with
jaws parted, and red tongue lolling. Now he sat down on his
haunches on a big rug, because the Master told him to sit down. For
a moment the Master dropped on one knee beside him, one arm about
his shoulders. Finn gave an anxious little whine. His heart was
thudding against his ribs; the prescient anxiety stirring within
him affected him with a physical nausea.

"Good-bye, my old Finn, son! Good-bye, you--you Irish Hound! Now
mark me, Finn, you stay here; you stay here--stay here, Finn!"

Such episodes are always suspect when seen in print. I have no wish
to exaggerate by a hair's-breadth about Finn. His whole nature bade
the Wolfhound follow his friend. The Master said, "Stay there!" And
there was no mistaking his meaning. Finn crouched down. His body
did not touch the floor; his weight rested on his outstretched
legs, though his position appeared to be that of lying. There he
crouched; but, as though the thing were too much for him to see as
well as feel, he buried his muzzle, well over the eyes, between his
fore-legs, just as he might have done if a strong light had dazzled
him. It was obedience such as a great soldier could appreciate.
Finn stayed there, hiding his face; but as the house-door closed
behind the Master, a cry broke from Finn, a muffled cry, by reason
of the position of his head; a cry that was part bark, part whine,
and part groan; a cry that smote upon the Master's ears as he
stepped out upon the gravel drive in the sunlight, with the biting,
stinging pain, not of the parting, but of an accusation. There was
a twinge of shame as well as grief in the Master's heart that day,
though he knew well that what he had done was unavoidable. Still,
there was the sense of shame, of treachery. Finn had been
wonderfully human and close to him since they left England
together.

Before noon of that day the Master was on his way to the mountains
with the Mistress of the Kennels.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIII

AN