They were hurrying along, when there was a joyful cry, and the sturdy Breton woman chosen for Dale’s attendant cried out:
“Ah, monsieur; quick! quick! Here—help!”
Stratton quitted Brettison’s side and rushed forward, to see, as the group opened, a sight that made his blood boil with rage.
Dale was holding Myra’s wrist with his left hand and struggling violently with the admiral and Guest, who were afraid to exert their strength for fear of injuring Myra, who was supported by Margot with one arm, while with her strong fingers she grasped her patient’s wrist in turn.
“Quick, monsieur!” cried Margot; “it is a fit. He is half-mad.”
Forgetting everything but the fact that Myra was in this scoundrel’s grasp, Stratton sprang at him, catching him by the throat to try and make him quit his hold.
“Mr Stratton!” cried Sir Mark in angry amazement.
The name acted like magic. Dale shook himself free of the admiral and Margot, loosening Myra’s wrist in the act, and with an angry snarl, like that of some wild beast, fixed his hands on Stratton’s throat.
In spite of his last meeting Guest flew to his friend’s assistance, and Margot bravely flung her arms about her patient’s waist; but in spite of all the man’s strength for the moment was gigantic, and, paying no heed to the others, he sought to vent his rage upon Stratton, who felt himself growing weaker and weaker in his enemy’s grasp.
Twice over as they swayed here and there he caught sight of Myra’s face convulsed with horror while she clung to her cousin, and her look unnerved him so that it would have gone hard with him but for the arrival of a party of four men who had landed from the boat that had kept pace with them along the shore.