CHAPTER XV
Though the approach of the Allies had not taken place within a week from the time when it was supposed to be near, and was at least premature, the two regiments of soldiers-that of La Reine and that of Les Gardes Françaises-as well as two squadrons of the Mousquetaires Noirs, remained in the city. To supply these with temporary barracks some of the large warehouses on the quays had been occupied by the French (who, however, spared all dwelling-houses), and amongst them were Sylvia's warehouses.
But the proximity of these troops had rendered the Weiss Haus no longer an agreeable place of residence to her, and, consequently, she had accepted the oft-repeated invitation of Mynheer Van Ryk and his wife to occupy their house with them. Neither the would-be host or hostess were, however, aware that she had come to the determination of quitting Liége at any moment that an opportunity should arise.
Nor, indeed, would it have been easy for Sylvia to explain her reason for thus desiring to be gone. If she had stated that it was her intention to escape out of the city, the sober-reasoning minds of the Van Ryks would simply have formed the opinion-which was, in absolute fact, the one she had herself long since arrived at-that she was far safer in Liége than she would have been in quitting it and traversing a land now swarming with contending armies.
Yet how would it be possible for her to, on the other hand, inform them that her reason for departing was not that of self-preservation at all, but, instead, of consulting the safety of a man who, in his desire to serve her, no matter what the origin of that desire was, had placed himself in terrible peril?
One person existed, however, who was well aware of all Sylvia's thoughts and intentions; who could understand the nobility of the girl's mind in deciding to quit a place in which she was in no likelihood of danger, simply with the view to the preservation of a man who might at any moment be exposed to the greatest of dangers. Consequently, this person, who was the Comtesse de Valorme, not only admired Sylvia for her intentions, but, since she herself was equally desirous of quitting Liége for her own purposes, had decided not only to render assistance to the undertaking, if it were possible to do so, but also to form one of the fugitives.
"Yet," said Sylvia to the Comtesse, as now they talked over the determination they had both come to, "fresh troubles arise at every step. 'Twas but this afternoon that M. de Belleville" – for so both ladies spoke of Bevill for precaution's sake, though the Comtesse had known for days that he was an Englishman-"confided to me that M. Francbois was once at school with him in Paris, and that he can by no chance have forgotten what his country is nor what his name is."
"Where should the trouble be?" the Comtesse asked. "Francbois is a crafty man, especially when craft may serve his purpose. But here it will serve none. Were he to denounce M de Belleville, it might, in truth, lead to the latter's downfall, but would not enrich him. Your friend would be tried as a spy and-"
"No, no! Say it not!" Sylvia exclaimed, with a shudder, understanding well enough what the next word must have been. "Say it not. Think how nobly, how chivalrously, he has found his way here."
"It would not enrich Francbois," the Comtesse repeated; "therefore he has no reason to betray him."
As she spoke these words, however, Sylvia knew very well that Francbois had not only one reason for betraying Bevill, but had very plainly told her that, if driven to desperation, he would undoubtedly betray him.
Living in the same house that Sylvia was now in, since he too was a connection of the Van Ryks, Francbois had countless opportunities of pressing his suit with her, and these opportunities he did not neglect. And then, after he had discovered that not only was this Englishman, whom he hated in his boyhood, here in Liége under a false name and nationality but, as he had also learnt, was in the habit of seeing Sylvia frequently, he had added to this discovery a very strong suspicion that he was an English admirer, if not lover, of hers. But that there was any intention on their part of quitting Liége he did not as yet imagine. Even so, however, he knew enough.
This Englishman, passing as a Frenchman, was, he admitted, handsome, gallant, and debonnaire-a man whom any woman might well love and be proud to love. And Sylvia, he remembered, had refused all the addresses that other men had attempted to pay her, including his own. She was ever cold, stately, and almost contemptuous of men's admiration. Yet now, now that this man had appeared, they had been much together, as his own observations had shown him-was it not possible that, in her frequent visits to England with her father, she had met this countryman of hers and learnt to love him, and that now he was here, not only to carry on his suit, but also to be with her in time of trouble? He knew too that, although Bevill had not yet entered Van Ryk's house, he had met Sylvia and the Comtesse on the quays and in the public gardens of the city. He did, indeed, know enough.
Therefore, this very day, he had spoken plainly to the girl-so plainly that, without indulging in any actual threats, he had made her see clearly how much there was to fear from him if she still refused to listen to his protestations, his desire to obtain her hand.
"What does he threaten, what hint at?" the Comtesse de Valorme asked as she listened to all that Sylvia told her; while, as she spoke, there was a strange look in her eyes.
"He threatens nothing, yet suggests much. He said but this morning that a word to M. de Violaine, who is in command of the Citadel-"
"Monsieur de Violaine! De Violaine! The Brigadier! Is he in command of the Citadel?"
"Why, yes. So Monsieur Francbois said. Do you know him?"
"Ay, very well, for many years. He is, like me, from the South. So! A hint to him. Well! What is this hint to convey? What harm is it to do?"
"To cause Mr. Brac-M. de Belleville to be arrested as an Englishman passing as a Frenchman, and doubtless, in the French mind, as a spy. To be tried as the latter-to be executed. Ah, no, no, no!" Sylvia concluded. "Not that-surely not that."
"Let him denounce your compatriot to M. de Violaine. Bid him do so when next he makes his vile suggestion. Only, to the defiance add this: ask him if he knows to what faith M. de Violaine belongs; ask him if he knows which man the Governor of the Citadel would deal harder with-an Englishman passing under the garb of a Frenchman, or a Frenchman who is-"
"What?"
"Ah! well, no matter for the present. Also, on second thoughts, do not ask him that. Instead, say: Madame de Valorme is a friend of M. de Belleville. He who injures him incurs her enmity. It will be enough. Now tell me, when do you expect to see your countryman again?"
"He is coming to-night to see us both. Alas! he may not come in open daylight, since he recognises that it is not well for him and Francbois to meet here face to face. But still he would fain see you, since you have promised to leave the city with us, if such a thing can be accomplished; also he comes to tell us how stands the chance of our succeeding."
"When does he come?"
"At nightfall. Knowing that Mynheer keeps his bed of a quinsy, and Madame stays with him, while Francbois has gone to see his friends at the Jesuits' College-"
"Ah! his friends at the Jesuits' College," the Comtesse repeated quietly.
"Monsieur de Belleville will come in by the garden gate. It may be, he says, that he will have discovered some chance, or, at least, have conceived some scheme whereby we shall be enabled to leave the city and make our way to the Allied Forces."
"Does he know my mission, the reason why I so ardently desire to see Lord Marlborough? Does he know why I so long to cast myself at that commander's feet-to beg him, to implore him on my knees to send the long-promised aid of England to those of our persecuted faith in Languedoc? To send it now-now-when France is attacked on all sides, when England and Holland are hemming her in with bands of steel in the north, when Prince Eugene is hurling his armies against her in Italy. For now is the time. Now! Now!"
"He knows," Sylvia said, touching her friend's hand gently. "I have told him."
"And does he know the rest? All. Have you told him that?"
"Oh, do not speak of it! Do not think of it! Ah, Radegonde!" addressing the other by her Christian name. "Do not speak of it, I entreat you."
"Not speak of it! Not think of it!" the Comtesse exclaimed, while as she did so her eyes were wet with tears, her cheeks being also as wet with them as leaves bedashed with rain, her whole frame being shaken with emotion. "As well bid me not dream of it night by night, nor let my existence be broken with unhappy memories. Not think of my father's death-my father, an old, grey-haired, feeble man! – in the dungeons of Nîmes-my father, who, had he not thus died, would have been broken on the wheel. Not think of that! Nor, perhaps of my husband-"
"Oh, Radegonde!"
" – sent to the galleys, beaten, driven to his doom even as he sat lashed to the oar. He! young, gallant, an honest, God-fearing man! And all for what? For what? Because they and thousands like them-all good and true subjects of this tyrant Louis, of this priest-ridden, woman-ridden Louis-did but wish to worship in their own way! Not think of it! My God! shall I ever cease to think of it?"
"Nay, do not weep, I implore you," Sylvia exclaimed. "The English will help; so, too, will all the Netherlands. All who think and worship as those in the South worship will help. And soon, soon, freedom, peace, must come. An end must come to all their sufferings."
"Does he know all this?" the Comtesse asked again when her passionate sorrow had somewhat spent itself. "Does he? If not, he must do so. Otherwise, what will he deem me-me, a Frenchwoman seeking to reach Marlborough, the most hated, the most feared foe of France!"
"He knows," Sylvia whispered, "and, knowing, understands all."
But by now the night was near at hand. Through the great, open, bow-shaped window of the solid Dutch house was wafted the scent of countless summer flowers, the perfume of the roses, now dashed with the evening dews, mingling with that of many others. Also the sounds that summer always brings more plainly to the ears were not wanting; the birds were twittering in the trees ere roosting for the short night; from the Abbey of St Paul the solemn sounds of the great bell boomed softly while the silver-toned carillons joined in unison. In other of the city gardens close by the voices of little children could be heard as they played their last rounds ere going to their beds, all unconscious, or, at least, unheeding, in their innocence that they were in a beleaguered city that, if war's worst horrors rolled that way, might ere long be the scene of awful carnage and see its old streets drenched with blood.
"It is the time, Sylvia," the Comtesse said, "that he should come. Is the gate unlocked?"
"Nay, not yet. I will go and see to it." And Sylvia, passing through the low window and down the steps to the garden, went along the neatly-kept path towards where the gate was.
Then, at the moment she was about to turn the key in the lock, and, next, to leave the solid wooden gate an inch ajar, so that, when Bevill came, he might push it open as he had done more than once since she had taken up her abode in this house, she heard a footstep outside in the lane-one that she had already learnt to know well enough!
"Ah," she exclaimed, turning the key quickly and drawing back the door, while she held out her hand to Bevill a moment afterwards. "Ah! you have come."
"To the moment," he replied, taking her outstretched hand and bending over it. "Did I not say that I would be here before the carillon had finished its chimes? And here am I! Yet-yet-almost I doubted if it were well for me to come to-night-"
"You doubted that!" Sylvia exclaimed, while stopping on their way towards the house to look up at him. "You doubted if you would come! Knowing how we were waiting here, how we were expecting your coming!"
"Ay, knowing what danger lurks near to you; to your desire and that of Madame de Valorme to quit Liége. Also, in a lesser degree, to me, though that matters not-"
"That matters not!" the girl exclaimed, repeating his words again, while in the dusk he could see her starry eyes fixed on his-eyes that resembled the stars themselves gleaming through the mists of summer nights-"that matters not!"
"Danger," he went on, unheeding, though not unobserving, "if Francbois knows my movements, if he knows that we meditate aught like flight from Liége. Have you not told me of his unwelcome desires and hopes-of his-?"
"Hark! Stop!" Sylvia whispered, interrupting him. "Listen. There is another footstep in the lane. It may be he-following, tracking you. And the gate is open! Heavens, he is there! The footfall stops. If his suspicions are aroused he will halt at nothing. He will denounce you!"
"Will he? We will see to that. Go back to the room, welcome him as he returns-"
"But you? You! The danger is yours, not mine."
"I am safe. I fear nothing."
"Ah, yes; when he has entered you can escape, can leave by the door. 'Tis so. Farewell until to-morrow. Farewell." And as swiftly as might be, the tall, graceful form of Sylvia sped back to the room while Bevill, crossing the grass plot, entered an arbour at the side of it.
"Ha!" he said to himself. "Escape! Leave by the door! She does not know me yet. Escape!" and as he spoke he drew still further within the darkness of the arbour.
Neither he nor Sylvia had been too soon in their action. Looking through the interstices of The vines which were trained to grow outside the open woodwork of the arbour, Bevill saw that Francbois was advancing up the path towards the steps leading to the open window of the old room.
As he did so, however, a reflection entered his mind which caused him to wonder if, after all, there was any connection between Francbois' doing so and his own visit. The man lived here with the Van Ryks. Might it not be, therefore, that this was his ordinary way of returning home? A moment later, however, Bevill recognised that this could not be so. The gate was always locked inside at night; as was the case with himself but just now, and on former visits during the week, it had to be unlocked from the inside for entrance to be obtained.
"Francbois comes this way to-night," he muttered, "because he knows, has seen, that I too did so!" and as he so thought he brought his sash a little more round and felt to discover if his sword ran smoothly in its sheath.
Meanwhile, the other had entered through the open window of the room, and had found Sylvia by herself, since the Comtesse must have quitted it for some purpose during the time the girl had gone to unlock the gate. He could see that she was by herself, for the lamp, which had been brought in some time earlier, was turned fully up.
"Mademoiselle is alone," Francbois said, though as he spoke his eyes were peering into the corners of the room that, in spite of the lamp, were in partial darkness; and also peering, as far as possible, behind the great Java screens. "Alone!"
"Apparently," Sylvia replied in the usual indifferent tones she adopted towards this man. "Madame de Valorme was here a moment since."
"Madame de Valorme!" Francbois echoed. "Madame de Valorme alone?"
"Whom else did you expect to see?"
"One whom I had good reason to suppose was here-your 'French' friend, Monsieur de Belleville."
"Your eyes prove to you that your supposition is wrong."
"Surely he has entered the house. I followed behind him on my way here."
"He has not entered the house. That you 'followed' him I do not doubt And, even had he entered the house, which as I tell you he has not done, you are not the master of it. Also, Mynheer Van Ryk, who is, has bade me welcome here any whom I desire to receive."
"It is incredible!" Francbois said. "Incredible. He passed down the lane before me. And-and-that door," pointing to one which led out of the room into a small library or study, "is not fast shut. And there is a light within."
"Monsieur Francbois," Sylvia said very quietly, and now she stood before him drawn to her full height, stately, contemptuous, as an affronted queen might stand, "if you choose to believe your own thoughts as against what I tell you, do so. Look in that room and see if my 'friend,' Monsieur de Belleville, is there. Only, from the moment you have done so, never dare to address one word to me again. There," extending her arm, "is the door. Enter the room and observe for yourself. Afterwards, you will doubtless search the house."
Vacillating, uncertain how to decide; sure, too, that his eyes had not deceived him, Francbois knew not what to do. If he looked in the room and did not find the Englishman, then his remotest chance with Sylvia was gone for ever; while, if he did find him there, his recollection of Bevill's earlier character told him that he would have to pay a heavy reckoning for his curiosity. Yet, how could the man be there? Would Sylvia have bidden him enter the room had that been so; would she have bidden him do that which must stamp her as utterly untruthful should the Englishman be found?
Still halting, not knowing what to do, he nevertheless took a step or two towards the library door, while observing that Sylvia's glance was fixed contemptuously on him; then, suddenly, he exclaimed, "I will know!" and advanced close to the door.
At that moment it opened wide and the Comtesse de Valorme appeared.
"You see," she said, speaking with withering scorn, "I am the only person the room contains. Now do as Sylvia suggested-search the house."
"Monsieur Francbois need scarcely trouble so far as that," a voice said from the foot of the garden steps, while all turned their eyes on Bevill standing below. "I have heard enough to know that he seeks an opportunity of speaking with me. Monsieur Francbois, I pray you to descend. I, too, must have some talk with you. Afterwards, we can arrange our affairs pleasantly, I do not doubt. You understand?" looking at Francbois.
CHAPTER XVI
Francbois, his face become suddenly ashy, as both ladies observed, from the moment he had heard Bevill's voice and saw its owner standing at the foot of the steps, nevertheless did as he was invited and went out to the verandah. Then, seeing that, without any further word or sign, the Englishman was slowly making his way towards the gate, he followed him. Yet once the thought came to his mind as he did so, "If this were not the garden of the house wherein I dwell, if those women were not there, how easy 'twould be-now, as he walks ahead disdainfully-to put him out of my path, for ever." While, as he thus thought, his hand itched to draw the spadroon at his side.
In the room which he had left, the women were now standing at the open window, gazing down at the figures of the retiring men. On Sylvia's face there was a look of intense anxiety, of nervousness-an expression that, on the face of a woman of less heroic mould, might have been construed into one of fear. But, though this look was not, truly, one that depicted fear, the agitation that possessed her whole being was the outcome of fear. Not for herself-that could never be! – but for him-him-the man whose every path, every footstep, was day by day and hour by hour becoming more environed and beset by danger.
"And the bitterness of it all is," she thought to herself, "that the danger need never have arisen. I was safe. Short of this city being besieged by the English and fired by grenades or bombarded, or sacked and destroyed by the French in their rage, naught could harm me. Yet, to protect me, to shield me from harm, as he deemed in his chivalry, danger surrounds his every movement, his whole existence. How- how-shall I therefore save him, how repay him in turn? If we cannot leave this city, if I cannot save him by the pretence, the make-believe, that he is saving me-oh! what shall become of him? What?"
"They have passed out through the gate," the Comtesse said at this moment. "They-"
"What! is he going to kill him? To force him into a duel?"
"'Twere well he should do so," the Comtesse de Valorme said in a hard, dry voice that sounded strangely in Sylvia's ears, or would have done so had she not been too agitated to observe the tone of the other. "Very well it would."
"Radegonde! How can you speak so of one allied to you, one dwelling beneath the same roof as you? He has not harmed you; he is only dangerous in so far that we fear the harm he may do."
"While Francbois and Monsieur de Belleville inhabit this city there is no safety for your friend. I know Francbois. He is treacherous, subtle as a snake, and-and-it is much to his interests to have M. de Belleville removed from-well, from your companionship."
"Why?" the girl asked, looking at her companion. "Why?" Though, as she spoke, there came to her face the rose-blush that had but recently quitted it.
"You should guess why as easily as I. M. de Belleville," the Comtesse continued quietly, "is the representative of your guardian. Do you imagine that, holding this office, he would look with approval on Francbois' desires to-to-ah! you know what he desires."
"If," said Sylvia, speaking now with her usual calm, "neither my guardian nor Monsieur de Belleville had any existence, M. Francbois' desires would be no nearer their attainment. Ah," she exclaimed suddenly, "what is that? Is it the clash of swords? Listen!"
"I heard nothing. The night is tranquil; there is no sound. Sylvia, you are overwrought, overstrung. What do you fear? Such as Francbois cannot slay one such as he, except by treachery, by betrayal."
"If I fear aught it is that he should slay Francbois. I would not have a gallant gentleman stain his sword with the blood of such as that man is. I would not have Monsieur de Belleville bring fresh trouble, fresh risks of danger on himself."
That Sylvia was, indeed, overwrought must have been the case since, undoubtedly, she could have heard as yet no clash of swords proceeding from the spot which the two men had reached some minutes before.
When Bevill Bracton, followed by Francbois, had passed through the gate giving from the garden into the lane, he had continued for some paces until, arriving beneath the foliage of a tree that protruded over the wall of another property, he halted and, turning round, faced the other. Then he said:
"Monsieur Francbois, you remember me. We were at school years ago at the Lycée Saint Philippe. You have not forgotten?"
"I have forgotten nothing. You are an Englishman. Your name is-peste!-I-I know it, yet for the moment it has escaped me. Nevertheless, I shall recall it."
"It would be best that you should not endeavour to recall it," Bevill said, looking down on the man-and there was light enough for Francbois to see that the glance was a stern, determined one. "Also that you do not intrude on my affairs. If you do so, it will be dangerous for you."
"Dangerous for me!" the other exclaimed, with a contemptuous laugh. "For me! On my life, monsieur, it is not I who stand in danger here. Liége is dominated by the French, and I am a Frenchman. You are an Englishman. Your life is not worth a fico if that is once known."
"Short of you and what you may do, it cannot be known. Now listen to me. I am here in the garb of a private man, desiring not to draw my sword either in the disputes between your country and mine, or in personal quarrel. But that sword lies against my side ever ready to leap from its scabbard-as it will if I am thwarted in what I have set myself to do; if I am betrayed or falsely denounced by anyone-by you, since there is no other here who can do so. Ponder therefore on whether it will profit you to thwart, to betray me."
"Ohé!" Francbois exclaimed in a light and airy tone, which was probably but a poor outward sign of what his inward feelings were. "If it comes to drawing swords-ay, and crossing them too-there are others who can do as much. We Frenchmen know something of the swordsman's art. Witness how you English cross the Channel to take lessons in it from us."
"That is true. I myself took those lessons, and I have profited by them."
"Ah I it may be so," Francbois said, though the recollection of this fact, which for the moment he had forgotten, did not add much to his equanimity. "But as for the betrayal! Once betrayed, a man has little chance of avenging himself on his betrayer. The rat in the cage cannot bite his captor."
"He can bite him before he is caged. Now listen to me, Francbois. If I supposed to-night that you came into that house with a view to betraying me, you would never return to it. I know, however, why you followed me to it, why you were resolved to discover if I was within it. I know that you pester Mademoiselle Thorne with your addresses-"
"And I know," Francbois exclaimed, stung beyond endurance at the contemptuous tones of the other, "that you are an English lover of hers; that you have come here to be by her side, to endeavour, if it may be so, to remove her from Liége to your own land."
"It is false. I am no lover of hers. Except when she was a child of ten I have never set eyes on her until I did so here a week ago."
"It is very strange," Francbois sneered. "You found your way, made your entrance, to the Weiss Haus with ease. From the balcony Mademoiselle Thorne extended you a gracious welcome, bade you enter. Is it the habit for English donzelles to extend such cordial greetings to every passer-by? Do-"
But he stopped, seeing that he had said too much, for he had gone too far.
For the moment Bevill Bracton said nothing, yet his action was, indeed, louder than any words could have been. His hand drew forth his sword, lightly he ran the glittering blade across his left cuff; then, pointing with his left hand to the weapon by Francbois' side, he uttered one word-the word "Draw!"
"What if I refuse?" Francbois asked.
"Your fate will be the same, therefore you must defend yourself. You rogue," he went on through his teeth, "you dare to make aspersions on my countrywoman! You dare-you! – such as you! – to raise your eyes to Sylvia Thorne and, to make yourself safe with her, as you suppose you can do, you intend to denounce me to the French here. So be it. Only there shall be no betrayal. Either you remove me from your path now and for ever-now, this very instant-or I put an end to all your hopes and all your intended treacheries."
"You had best beware," Francbois said, and Bevill perceived that there was a laugh in his voice-a laugh that was half jeer, half sneer. Also he observed, and the observation surprised him, that there was no fear in the man. If he was treacherous and crafty-a villain-at least he was a bold one.
"Far best," Francbois continued. "I have crossed the Alps in my time. Monsieur may have heard of the stoccala lunga and the botte secrete and other strange passes taught in Italy-"
"Ay," said Bevill, "as well as the botte des laches! I will essay them. Doubtless it is the latter I have most to fear. Monsieur I am your servant. En garde."
And now, through the calmness of the night, the two women must have heard-sorely they heard-a sound not often familiar to women's ears, yet one that, once heard, especially in such days, could scarcely be misunderstood, even if not fully recognised.
A sound not unlike the hiss of the hooded snake as it glides towards its victims-or, as one of those old Italian fencing-masters has described it, "water hissing on hot iron." Also they must have heard the "tic-tac" that steel makes as it grates against steel-a sound that is not noise. And once, also, they must have heard a voice, the voice of Francbois, ejaculate, "Ah!"
"They are engaged," the Comtesse whispered hurriedly to Sylvia. "They-"
"Engaged!" the girl replied. "He and that man! Oh, Radegonde, hasten! Come! Come, ere it is too late."
"Ay," Madame de Valorme exclaimed, "Francbois is a master of fence. Monsieur de Belleville's life is too good for such as he to take."
Then, together, they sped down the garden path and through the gate into the lane.
But now the scraping of the steel had ceased, while the obscurity of the night beneath the overhanging tree was such that they could scarcely perceive the figures of the two men. Yet that they were there they knew. The darkness of the lane could not disguise their presence.
"Stop!" the Comtesse said, advancing towards the deeper gloom that stood out in that darkness and testified to, at least, the figure of one man. "Stop, I command you. Monsieur de Belleville, hold your hand. Francbois, if you injure him, you are lost!"
While uttering these sentences in a clear voice, though in a somewhat incoherent manner, she, followed by Sylvia, reached the spot where the men were.
That Bevill was uninjured the Comtesse and Sylvia recognised at once. He was standing upright in the middle of the path between the hedges, and in his hand he held his sword, point downwards to the earth; on which Sylvia murmured, "Thank Heaven above!" as she recognised this to be the case.
As for Francbois, he, too, was standing upright, only his sword was not in his hand; and now both ladies heard Bevill say:
"As for your lungas and bottes, Monsieur Francbois, truly they are not wonderful. A somewhat strong wrist and a trick of disengaging has defeated them. Pick up your weapon and sheathe it: we will renew the matter elsewhere."
"Nay," the Comtesse said, "you will not renew it. I," she continued, "have that which should render Emile Francbois harmless. Come," she said now, turning to the other. "Came, follow me some steps farther down the lane. I must speak with you, and at once. Come," she said again, and this time she spoke in a tone that plainly showed she intended to be obeyed-a tone that would have required no great effort of imagination on a listener's part to cause him to suppose that a disobedient dog was being spoken to.