I couldn't let you drown
it. Now, what are their names to be?"
"There's Melpomeen, Miss Percival, and Melody, and Melchior, and
Melchizedek. That's for the bitches."
She quizzed him. "No, Frodsham, really that won't do. I'm not quite sure
about Melchizedek; but Melchior was a man--he was a king--a king of the
East. And I believe Melchizedek was an angel."
Frodsham rubbed his chin. "May be you are right, Miss Percival. An angel,
was he now? Wings to him? 'Tis a name for a bird, then. If we kept the
hawks the old Squire used to love--there's a name for a peregrine!
Melchizedek--a fair mouthful."
"A Priest for ever," mused Jacobs, a wizened elder, the kennel man, who
yet bowed to the coachman in his own yard. "We may put him among the dogs,
I believe. We've Proteus, and Prophet; but no Priest."
Frodsham looked to Sanchia for direction, ignoring Jacobs. She flashed him
a name. "Melisande, Frodsham. Call her Melisande, and save her life; and
she shall be mine. I'll look after her. Please do." He owned to the spell
of her eyes, of the sun upon her hair. "Melisande she shall be, Miss
Percival, and your own," he said. "The Missus shall rear her if the old
bitch won't.
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