“After I’ve strangled you!” gasped Lena.
“—— you,” muttered the man. “Drown, then!”
Her head went under; her mouth filled; this time she could not struggle up; her ears rang; her brain burst. But the little fingers on the big throat clutched on. Then she felt herself caught from above—air came, and breath with it—and Ben swore faintly.
“Undo your hands, Lena,” said the sergeant. “We’ve got him. You don’t want to hang him before his time.”
Another flash of lightning revealed the sea and sky, the docks and the officers, and Ben, purple and breathing hard, stretched upon the wharf. Lena heard the snap of the handcuffs upon his wrists; and then she heard and saw no more.
The sergeant touched the girl’s dripping and unconscious figure with a respect never shown to Lena in Windover police circles before.
“She might not come to, yet,” he said; “she’s nigh enough to a drowned girl. Get a woman, can’t you, somebody?”
“The man’s all we can manage,” replied a brother officer. “Get him to the station the back way—here! Give a hand there! Quick! We’ll have lynch-law here in just about ten minutes, if you ain’t spry. Hark! D’ye hear that?”
A muffled roar came down the throat of Angel Alley. It grew, and approached. It was the cry of all Windover raging to avenge the Christian hero whom it learned, too late, to honor.