CHAPTER XXXIII. A FRIGHTFUL DEBATE
Pushing through a swarm into the cot, Fleetwood saw Carinthia on a knee beside a girl’s lap, where the stripped child lay. Its mother held a basin for the dabbing at raw red spots.
A sting of pain touched the memory of its fright, and brought further screams, then the sobs. Carinthia hummed a Styrian cradle-song as the wailing lulled.
She glanced up; she said to the earl: ‘The bite was deep; it was in the blood. We may have time. Get me an interpreter. I must ask the mother. I know not many words.’
‘What now?’ said he, at the looming of new vexations.
‘We have no choice. Has a man gone? Dr. Griffiths would hurry fast. An hour may be too late. The poison travels: Father advised it:—Fifty years for one brave minute! This child should be helped to live.’
‘We ‘ll do our best. Why an interpreter?’
‘A poker in the fire. The interpreter—whether the mother will bear to have it done.’
‘Burn, do you mean?’
‘It should be burnt.’