126 THE DESERT AND THE ROSE 



emotions are of a different order, though agitating 

 in equal measure his finely ruffled shirt bosom. 

 Never does he bend his own sombre gaze upon those 

 contemptible pups but surveys the scenery with an 

 air of detachment, or reaches forth one long- 

 fingered, long-clawed — hand, I was about to say, 

 so unlike paws are the curving extremities of his 

 breed — and gently presses my cheek as if to turn 

 my face too from the silly spectacle. 



"Don't pay so much attention to those wretched 

 brats!" he says. "They're not worth it. Look at 

 me instead!" 



Admonition failing, he steps gingerly into my 

 lap — he who despises laps ! — but still in vain. I pull 

 his silken ears and smile into his appealing eyes. 

 But this is beside the question; neither is he in a 

 smiling mood. Haughtily he withdraws to the 

 further end of the step, and with a profound sigh — 

 for sighing is his trump card — presents a rear view 

 of himself to the maddening imps. Sincere as is 

 his devotion to Betsey, and though courageous out- 

 side the domestic circle, he is afraid of her and so 

 refrains from more open remonstrance. It may be 

 that he hates the pups more than is seemly because 

 when together we visited Betsinda at the home of 

 her birth and he ventured on tiptoe to peep into the 

 basket containing her and the pups, she flew at him 

 and chased him from the scene. 



At last we are all quiet in our several ways. Their 

 little bodies aweary of this great world Montezuma 

 and his sister fall limply to sleep, but not before 

 the former, who is particularly diminutive, has 



