"Who is the little cockatrice?" he cried, the tears streaming down his
florid cheeks. "Who is the young she-devil? Ods bodikins, who is she?"

For a second or so the servants stared at each other aghast, not knowing
what to say, or venturing to utter a word; and then the nurse, who had
come up panting, dared to gasp forth the truth.

"'Tis Mistress Clorinda, Sir Jeoffry," she stammered--"my lady's last
infant--the one of whom she died in childbed."

His big laugh broke in two, as one might say. He looked down at the
young fury and stared. She was out of breath with beating him, and had
ceased and fallen back apace, and was staring up at him also, breathing
defiance and hatred. Her big black eyes were flames, her head was thrown
up and back, her cheeks were blood scarlet, and her great crop of crow-
black hair stood out about her beauteous, wicked little virago face, as
if it might change into Medusa's snakes.

"Damn thee!" she shrieked at him again. "I'll kill thee, devil!"

Sir Jeoffry broke into his big laugh afresh.

"Clorinda do they call thee, wench?" he said. "Jeoffry thou shouldst
have been but for thy mother's folly. A fiercer little devil for thy
size I never saw--nor a handsomer one."

And he seized her from where she stood, and held her at his big arms'
length, gazing at her uncanny beauty with looks that took her in from
head to foot.