"Mind—mind as he doan't bite 'ee, mind as he doan't bite 'ee. Ah God, save us, he be mad!" She stooped, she fumbled in the dust, she found what she sought for, a flint, a jagged, heavy flint. There was hell fire in Lestwick's eyes, the passionate rage of a maniac. This she saw as she flung the stone. She flung it straight at that hideous, convulsed face.
It struck Lestwick on the forehead, it broke the skin and the blood gushed out. He turned, he looked at her, noting it was her hand that had flung it. He laughed a curiously strange mocking laugh and then he collapsed, seemed to crumple before her eyes and fall a limp heap in the roadway.
"What did you do, Betty, Betty what have you done?"
She was sobbing and laughing at once. "He—he meant to kill 'ee, meant to—to get they teeth o' his in your throat, Allan, oh I knew it, I knew it! Did—did 'ee see his face, Allan, did 'ee see his face and his eyes? And oh they—they hands o' his!"
"Go into the house quietly, say nothing to anyone, bring water quickly, understand, not a word to a soul, bring water here at once!"
He went down on his knees beside the man, he lifted the sorely battered head, the hideous blood stained face. Yet it was not hideous now, the passion was smoothed away, the eyes and mouth were closed.
She was back with the water in but a few seconds.
"Be he dead?"
"No!"
Minutes passed, between them they bathed away the blood, they cleaned the wound, the jagged wound in his forehead. Allan bound it with his own white handkerchief and then the man opened his eyes, now they were dull and brooding. He lifted his hand and passed it across his mouth, as a man does in sheer nervousness.