“They ’ll be here,” said D’ri.  “They ’ll be here jest es sure es God—­’fore daylight, mebbe.  But I can’t fight er dew nothin’ till I ’ve tied some vittles.”

“You shall have supper,” said the baroness, who, without delay, went to the kitchen herself with a servant to look after it.  The butler brought a pair of slippers and a dry coat, while I drew off the boots of my good friend.  Then I gave him my arm as he limped to the kitchen beside me.  The baroness and I sat near him as he ate.

“Go upstairs and call the gentlemen,” said she to the butler, “Do not make any disturbance, but say I should like to speak with them in the dining room.”

“Is thet air hired man o’ yours a Britisher?” D’ri inquired as soon as the butler was gone.

“He is—­from Liverpool,” said she.

“Thet’s the hole ’n the fence,” said he.  “Thet’s where the goose got away.”

“The goose!  The geese!” said the baroness, thoughtfully.  “I do not understand you.”

“Went ‘n’ blabbed, thet’s whut he done,” said D’ri.  “Mebbe wrote ’em a letter, gol-dum his pictur’.”

“Oh, I perceive!  I understand,” said she; “and I send him away to-morrow.”

“Neck’s broke with hunger,” said D’ri.  “Never threw no vittles ’n my basket with sech a splendid taste tew ’em es these hev.”

The baroness looked at him with some show of worry.

“I beg your pardon,” said she, “did you say the neck of you was broken?”

I explained the idiom.

“Ain’t hed nothin’ t’ eat since day ’fore yistiddy,” said D’ri.  “Judas Priest!  I ’m all et up with hunger.”

With old Burgundy and biscuit and venison and hot coffee he was rapidly reviving.

“I ’m wondering where I will hide you both,” said the baroness, thoughtfully.

“Hed n’t orter hev no rumpus here, ‘n’ go t’ shootin’ ‘n’ mebbe spile yer house ‘n’ furnicher,” said D’ri. “’T ain’t decent er ’t ain’t nice.  We ‘d better mek tracks an’ put a mild er tew ’twixt us ‘n’ here ’fore we hev any trouble.  ‘T ain’t a-goin’ t’ be no Sunday School.  Ef they can, they ‘re a-goin’t’ tek us dead er ’live.  Ef they ever tuk us we would n’t be wuth shucks, nuther on us, efter court martial.”

“I shall not permit you to go,” said the baroness.  “They may be here now, about the house in the dark.  They would shoot you, they would stab you, they would cause you to die as you went.  No, I shall permit you not to go, There are four of them?  Very well, we shall fight here, we shall conquer.  We have a general, a count, a millionnaire, a marquis, a lawyer, an astronomer, a scout, and,” she added, patting me on the shoulder, “le brave capitaine!  I have four guns and three pistols, and M’sieur Bell has arms also.  We shall conquer.  We shall make them to bite the dust.”

“Guns; did ye say?  Jerushy Jane!  Le’ ’s hev ’em,” said D’ri.

“What did he call me?  Mon Dieu!  Jerushy Jane!  It is not I,” said the baroness.