The Conte uttered a cry of rage, and made a dash at her, but she avoided him, and sprang toward Armstrong, who caught her to his breast, but so as to have his right hand at liberty.
But it was not free in time, for the Conte, with a cry of rage, swung round, and brought down the heavy ebony stick with a sickening crash upon the artist’s head, then caught Valentina from him as he fell inert and senseless upon the floor.
“Well, am I such a simple idiot and fool?” said Lady Grayson in a quick whisper.
“Yes; to talk now,” was the fierce reply. “Help me; get her away, or I shall kill him.”
Without another word she went to Valentina’s side, and between them they dragged her, sick at heart, trembling, and half fainting, out of the studio and down the stairs to Lady Grayson’s carriage, which was waiting at the door.
“Is anything the matter, miss? Can I do anything?” said a voice.
Cornel looked up from where she was kneeling on one of the rugs with Armstrong’s head in her lap, and saw that the grimy little face of Keren-Happuch was peering in at the door.
Cornel looked at her wildly for a few moments, and then, in a low hoarse voice, whispered—
“Yes: quick, water!” Then, with a piteous sigh, “Oh, the blood—the blood! Help!—quick, quick! He is dying. Oh, my love, my love, that it should come to this!”