t of which naught is known
by human creatures, it felt the strange presence of a thing which roused
it. It stirred, at first drowsily, and lifted its head and sniffed; then
it stretched its limbs, and having done so, stood up, turning on its
mistress a troubled eye, and this she saw and stopped to meet it. 'Twas
a strange look she bestowed upon it, a startled and fearful one; her
thought drew the blood up to her cheek, but backward again it flowed when
the little beast lifted its nose and gave a low but woeful howl. Twice
it did this, and then jumped down, and standing before the edge of the
couch, stood there sniffing.

There was no mistake, some instinct of which it knew not the meaning had
set it on, and it would not be thrust back. In all beasts this strange
thing has been remarked--that they know That which ends them all, and so
revolt against it that they cannot be at rest so long as it is near them,
but must roar, or whinny, or howl until 'tis out of the reach of their
scent. And so 'twas plain this little beast knew and was afraid and
restless. He would not let it be, but roved about, sniffing and whining,
and not daring to thrust his head beneath the falling draperies, but
growing more and yet more excited and terrified, until at last he
stopped, raised head in air, and gave vent to a longer, louder, and more
dolorous howl, and albeit to one with so strange and noticeable a sound
that her heart turned over in her breast as she stooped and caught him in
her grasp, and shuddered as she stood upright, holding him to her side,
her hand over his mouth. But he would not be hushed, and struggled to
get down as if indeed he would go mad unless he might get to the thing
and rave at it.

"If I send thee from the room thou wilt come back, poor Frisk," she said.
"There will be no keeping thee away, and I have never ordered thee away
before. Why couldst thou not keep still? Nay, 'twas not dog nature."

That it was not so was plain by his struggles and the yelps but poorly
stifled by her grasp.

She put her hand about his little neck, turning, in sooth, very pale.

"Thou too, poor little beast," she said. "Thou too, who art so small a
thing and never harmed me."

When the lacquey came back he wore an air more timorous than before.

"Your ladyship," he faltered, "Sir John had not yet reached his lodgings.
His servant knew not when he might expect him."

"In an hour go again and wait," she commanded. "He mus