Her black hair floated loose; her eyes were alight with shame and terror; her bodice hung in strips from her waist. She hurried towards him, maddening and moaning, and, as she ran, the harpies scourged her bare shoulders with the leathern belts they had torn from their waists.
He rushed to intercept her flight. She saw—tried to evade him; then instantly she leapt to recognition, clutched, and fell prone at his feet.
He stood over her, while she shrieked and wailed incoherently; he warded off the rain of lashes, receiving much of it on his own arms and body.
“Beasts!” he yelled; “how has she deserved this infernal treatment?”
The air blattered with their imprecations.
“The traitress! the reactionary! the putain of Brissot!”
The thongs whistled; the mob circumgyrated; the uproar waxed murderous. In the heat and menace of it a sudden new ally appeared in the midst.
“Courage, master!” he cried; and seizing off his ragged jacket, he flung it over the victim’s bleeding shoulders, and turned upon the rabble.
“See here!” he shouted, and struck his left breast with his hand.
Upon the echo the nearest of the pack fell away, shouldering into the throng behind them.