The woman dragged herself half up from the white dust on which she had lain. She was shuddering convulsively, her long hair was hanging about her, her eyes wild and anguished, and her lips shivering more than trembling.
"Oh, God! Oh, God!" she wailed, and then let herself drop again and writhed, clutching at the white dust with her hands.
"Are you mad?" said Roxholm, sternly, "or only in some hysteric fury? Would you have your brains dashed out?"
She flung out her arms, tearing at the earth still and grinding her teeth.
"Yes—dashed out!" she cried; "all likeness beaten from my face that none might know it again. For that I threw myself before you."
The Marquess gave his horse to the servant, who had ridden to him, and made a sign both to him and Mr. Fox that they ride a little forward.
He bent over the girl (for she was more girl than woman, being scarce eighteen) and put his hand on her shoulder.
"Get up, Mistress," he said. "Rise and strive to calm yourself."
Suddenly his voice had taken a tone which had that in its depths no creature in pain would not understand and answer to. His keen eye had seen a thing which wrung his heart, it seeming to tell so plainly all the cruel story.
"Come, poor creature," he said, "let me help you to your feet."