Fleetwood grinned civilly in his excitement; intending to yield patient hearing, to be interested by any mortal thing she might choose to say.

She was advised by recollection to let her father rest.

‘No, dear girl, not hurt, no scratch,—­only my gown torn,’ she said to Madge; and Madge heaved and whimpered, and stooped to pin the frayed strips.  ’Quite safe; you see it is easy for women to escape, Mr. Edwards.’

Carinthia’s voice hummed over the girl’s head

’Father made me practise it, in case.  He forethought.  Madge, you heard of this dog.  I told you how to act.  I was not feverish.  Our babe will not feel it.’

She bade Madge open her hands.  ’A scratch would kill.  Never mind the tearings; I will hold my dress.  Oh! there is that one child bitten.  Mr. Edwards, mount a man for the doctor.  I will go in to the child.  He was bitten.  Lose not one minute, Mr. Edwards.  I see you go.’

He bowed and hastened.

The child’s mother was red eyes at her door for ease of her heart to the lady.  Carinthia stepped into the room, where the little creature was fetching sobs after the spout of screams.

‘God in heaven! she can’t be going to suck the bite?’ Fleetwood cried to Madge, whose answer was disquieting ’If it’s to save life, my mistress won’t stop at anything.’

His heart sprang with a lighted comprehension of Gower Woodseer’s meaning.  This girl’s fervour opened portals to new views of her mistress, or opened eyes.

CHAPTER XXXIII

A FRIGHTFUL DEBATE

Pushing through a swarm into the cot, Fleetwood saw Carinthia on a knee beside a girl’s lap, where the stripped child lay.  Its mother held a basin for the dabbing at raw red spots.

A sting of pain touched the memory of its fright, and brought further screams, then the sobs.  Carinthia hummed a Styrian cradle-song as the wailing lulled.

She glanced up; she said to the earl:  ’The bite was deep; it was in the blood.  We may have time.  Get me an interpreter.  I must ask the mother.  I know not many words.’

‘What now?’ said he, at the looming of new vexations.

’We have no choice.  Has a man gone?  Dr. Griffiths would hurry fast.  An hour may be too late.  The poison travels:  Father advised it:—­Fifty years for one brave minute!  This child should be helped to live.’

’We ‘ll do our best.  Why an interpreter?’

’A poker in the fire.  The interpreter—­whether the mother will bear to have it done.’

‘Burn, do you mean?’

‘It should be burnt.’

‘Not by you?’

‘Quick!  Quick!’

‘But will you—­could you?  No, I say!’

‘If there is no one else.’

‘You forget your own child.’

‘He is near the end of his mother.’

‘The doctor will soon arrive.’