A couple of hundred yards further on the road turned sharply to the right to an open space of grass. Standing on the grass was a thick-set swarthy-looking fellow, knotted ash stick in one hand, while swinging from the other was a small mongrel dog, bleeding and broken. The stick was doing deadly work. “Brute!” cried Pippo his cheeks scarlet. Peregrine’s face was white. The fellow started, the stick falling momentarily idle. “The cur bit me,” he muttered, casting an evil look towards them. “Knowing you the greater cur.” Pippo heard an unaccustomed note in Peregrine’s voice. “Go you into the field,” said Peregrine shortly, pointing to a gate. Pippo, hearing the tone of command, scuttled through it like a frightened rabbit. Yet once through he was all for seeing the turn of matters on the other side the hedge. Cherry blossom deposited on the ground he scrambled to the top of the bank. Clinging to the bushes he peered through. “Ah!” breathed Pippo, joy in the soft sound. Bah! he need not have feared for Peregrine’s manhood. He hugged himself for glee, thereby nearly slithering backwards down the slippery bank. For the first few seconds the tussle was short and fierce, then actual conflict gave place to naught but well-merited punishment. Peregrine’s heart had flamed to a white heat of fury. Five minutes later he flung the fellow free. With an oath the man slunk off staggering adown the way the two had come. Peregrine crossed to the small bundle of palpitating pain by the ditch side. Pippo saw his face. He slipped down from the bank, his heart beating hotly. He heard now what had before escaped him, the small shuddering moans of pain. Then there was another sound. “Pippo,” called Peregrine a moment later. Pippo grabbed up his cherry blossom and came through the gate. “Come on,” said Peregrine somewhat shortly. Pippo fell into step beside him, yet with one anxious backward glance towards the ditch. “The dog is out of pain,” said Peregrine kindly. And Pippo drew a deep breath. They still pursued their way in silence; at the moment words would not, I fancy, have come easily to either of them. Peregrine’s face was still stern; Pippo’s, if you must know, once more gleeful, something of a grin depicted on it. Since the victor had, it would appear, no vast satisfaction in the matter of the recent encounter, it behooved Pippo to have satisfaction for him, and this he had, very thoroughly. Coming nearer the castle they found themselves by the church. The door was set wide open. It was hard upon the hour for Complin. Here Peregrine paused. “Shall we enter?” he said, and passed through the porch. Pippo followed him nothing loath, composing the muscles of his face into an expression better suited to the sacredness of the place. Since Peregrine had a mind to pray, pray he might. His own will in the matter might now be safely accorded him. In Pippo’s eyes he had proved himself.