“What’s all this?” demanded Sir Hugh. “Here’s Nye telling me some story about Sally fainting. She never faints!”
Sir Tristram, looking down at Miss Thane, saw a shade of annoyance in her face. His lips twitched slightly, but he answered In a grave voice: “I fear it is too true. You may see for yourself.”
“Well, of all the odd things!” said Sir Hugh, surveying her through his eyeglass with vague surprise. “I’ve never known her do that before.”
“She has sustained a great shock to her nerves,” said Shield solemnly. “We can only trust that she has received no serious injury.”
“Ah, la pauvre! ” exclaimed Eustacie, enjoying herself hugely. “I wonder she is not dead with fright!” She thrust her cousin out of the way as she spoke, and sank upon her knees by the settle, holding the hartshorn under Miss Thane’s nose. “Behold, she is recovering! C’est cela, ma chère! Doucement, alors, doucement! ” Over her shoulder she addressed Sir Hugh. “Those wicked men attacked her—with sticks!” she added, observing the Runners’ cudgels.
It took a moment for Sir Hugh to assimilate this. He turned and stared at the two Runners, incredulous wrath slowly gathering in his eyes. “What!” he said. “They attacked my sister? These gin-swilling, cross-eyed numskulls? This pair of brandy-faced, cork-brained—”
Miss Thane interrupted this swelling diatribe with a faint moan, and opened her eyes. “Where am I?” she said in a weak voice.
“ Dieu soit bien! ” said Eustacie devoutly. “She is better!”
Miss Thane sat up, her hand to her brow. “Two men with sticks,” she said gropingly. “They ran after me and caught me ... Oh, am I safe indeed?”
“A little brandy, ma’am?” suggested Nye. “You are all shook up, and no wonder! It’s a crying scandal, that’s what it is! I never heard the like of it!”