That single kiss was to Ernestine the climax and zenith of horror. It seemed to sear and blister her very soul with an anguish of repulsion that would scar her memory for all time. She retained her consciousness, but she never knew by what lightning stroke she was set free. She was too dazed, too blinded, by her horror to realise. But suddenly the cruel grip that had her helpless was gone. A vague confusion swam before her eyes. Her knees doubled under her. She sank down in a huddled heap, and lay quivering.
There came to her the sound of struggling, the sound of cursing, the sound of blows. But, sick and spent, she heeded none of these things, till a certain monotony of sound began to drum itself into her senses. She came to full understanding to see Dinghra, in the grip of an Englishman, being hideously thrashed with his own horsewhip. He was quite powerless in that grip, but he would fight to the end, and it seemed that the end was not far off. The punishment must have been going on for many seconds. For his face was quite livid and streaked with blood, his hands groped blindly, beating the air, he staggered at each blow.
The whip fell flail-like, with absolute precision and regularity. It spared no part of him. His coat was nearly torn off. In one place, on the shoulder, the white shirt was exposed, and this also was streaked with blood.
Ernestine crouched under the tree and watched. But very soon a new fear sprang up within her, a fear that made her collect all her strength for action. It was something in that awful, livid face that prompted her.
She struggled stiffly to her feet, later she wondered how, and drew near to the two men. The whirling whip continued to descend, but she had no fear of that. She came quite close till she was almost under the upraised arm. She laid trembling hands upon a grey tweed coat.
"Let him go!" she said very urgently. "Let him go--while he can!"
Rivington looked down into her white face. He was white himself--white to the lips.
"I haven't done with him yet," he said, and he spoke between his teeth.
"I know," she said. "I know. But he has had enough. You mustn't kill him."
She was strangely calm, and her calmness took effect. Later, she wondered at that also.
Rivington jerked the exhausted man upright.
"Go back!" he said to Ernestine. "Go back! I won't kill him!"
She took him at his word, and went back. She heard Rivington speak briefly and sternly, and Dinghra mumbled something in reply. She heard the shuffling of feet, and knew that Rivington was helping him to walk.
For a little while she watched the two figures, the one supporting the other, as they moved slowly away. Dinghra's head was sunk upon his breast. He slunk along like a beaten dog. Then the trunk of a tree hid them from her sight.
When that happened, Ernestine suffered herself to collapse upon the moss, with her head upon her arms.
Lying thus, she presently heard once more the tread of a horse's feet, and counted each footfall mechanically. They grew fainter and fainter, till at last the forest silence swallowed them, and a great solitude seemed to wrap her round.
Minutes passed. She did not stir. Her strength had gone utterly from her. Finally there came the sound of a quiet footfall.
Close to her it came, and stopped.
"Why, Chirpy!" a quiet voice said.
She tried to move, but could not. She was as one paralysed. She could not so much as utter a word.
He knelt down beside her and raised her to a sitting posture, so that she leaned against him. Holding her so, he gently rubbed her cheek.
"Poor little Chirpy!" he said. "It's all right!"
At sound of the pity and the tenderness of his voice, something seemed to break within her, the awful constriction passed. She hid her face upon his arm, and burst into a wild agony of weeping.
He laid his hand upon her head, and kept it there for a while; then as her sobbing grew more and more violent, he bent over her.
"Don't cry so, child, for Heaven's sake!" he said earnestly. "It's all right, dear; all right. You are perfectly safe!"
"I shall never--feel safe--again!" she gasped, between her sobs.
"Yes, yes, you will," he assured her. "You will have me to take care of you. I shall not leave you again."
"But the nights!" she cried wildly. "The nights!"
"Hush!" he said. "Hush! There is nothing to cry about. I will take care of you at night, too."
She began to grow a little calmer. The assurance of his manner soothed her. But for a long time she crouched there shivering, with her face hidden, while he knelt beside her and stroked her hair.
At last he moved as though to rise, but on the instant she clutched at him with both hands.
"Don't go! Don't leave me! You said you wouldn't!"
"I am not going to, Chirpy," he said. "Don't be afraid!"
But she was afraid, and continued to cling to him very tightly, though she would not raise her face.
"Come!" he said gently, at length. "You're better. Wouldn't you like to bathe your feet?"
"You will stay with me?" she whispered.
"I am going to help you down to the stream," he said.
"Don't--don't carry me!" she faltered.
"Of course not! You can walk on this moss if I hold you up."
But she was very reluctant to move.
"I--I don't want you to look at me," she said, at last, with a great sob. "I feel such a fright."
"Don't be a goose, Chirpy!" he said.
That braced her a little. She dried her tears. She even suffered him to raise her to her feet, but she kept her head bent, avoiding his eyes.
"Look where you are going," said Rivington practically. "Here is my arm. You mustn't mind me, you know. Lean hard!"
She accepted his assistance in silence. She was crying still, though she strove to conceal the fact. But as she sank down once more on the brink of the stream, the sobs broke out afresh, and would not be suppressed.
"I was so happy!" she whispered. "I didn't want him here--to spoil my paradise."
Rivington said nothing. She did not even know if he heard; and if he were aware of her tears he gave no sign. He was gently bathing her torn feet with his hands.