"There, there, there," he growled; and each time a sledge-hammer blow fell on Bertie. "There, there, there"—on his nose, his eyes, his mouth, his forehead—and the blows resounded dully on his skull, as if on metal. A red mist clouded Westhove's sight; everything was red-purple, scarlet, vermilion. A blood-stained medley circled round him like whirling wheels, and through that strange crimson halo a distorted face grinned up at him under the pounding of his fist. The corners of the room swam in red, as if they were full of tangible red terror, whirling, whirling round him—a purple dizziness, a scarlet madness, a nightmare bathed in blood;... and his blows fell fast and steadily—"there—there—there"—and his left hand closed tighter on the throat below that face—
The door flew open, and she, Eva, rushed up to him through the red mist, parting it, dispelling it by the swift actuality of her appearance.
"Frank, Frank!" she screamed. "Stop, I entreat you! Stop! You are murdering him!"
He let his arm drop, and looked at her as in a dream. She tried to drag him back, to get him away from the battered body, to which he clung in his fury like a vampire.
"Leave him, Frank, I beseech you; let him stand up. Do not kill him. I was outside, and I was frightened. I did not understand, because you were speaking Dutch. Great heavens! What have you done to him? Look, look! What a state he is in!"
Frank had risen to his feet, dazed by that red frenzy; he had to lean on the table.
"I have given him what he deserved—I have thrashed him, and I will do it again!"
He was on the point of falling on the foe once more, with that devilish grin on his face and that brutal thirst still choking him.
"Frank, no. Frank!" cried Eva, clinging to him with both hands. "For God's sake be satisfied! Look at him! oh, look at him!"
"Well, then, let him get up," Frank snarled. "He may get up. Get up, wretch, at once; get up!"