"'What on earth are we to do with the hyaena?' came the inevitable
question.
"'What does one generally do with hyaenas?' I asked crossly.
"'I've never had anything to do with one before,' said Constance.
"'Well, neither have I. If we even knew its sex we might give it
a name. Perhaps we might call it Esm?. That would do in either
case.'
"There was still sufficient daylight for us to distinguish wayside
objects, and our listless spirits gave an upward perk as we came
upon a small half-naked gipsy brat picking blackberries from a
low-growing bush. The sudden apparition of two horsewomen and a
hyaena set it off crying, and in any case we should scarcely have
gleaned any useful geographical information from that source; but
there was a probability that we might strike a gipsy encampment
somewhere along our route. We rode on hopefully but uneventfully
for another mile or so.
"'I wonder what that child was doing there,' said Constance
presently.
"'Picking blackberries. Obviously.'
"'I don't like the way it cried,' pursued Constance; 'somehow its
wail keeps ringing in my ears.'
"I did not chide Constance for her morbid fancies; as a matter of
fact the same sensation, of being pursued by a persistent fretful
wail, had been forcing itself on my rather over-tired nerves.
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