“No, he’s not. It was a chance blow,” cried Ernest, who was strongly inclined to challenge the victor on his own account. “Get up, Frank. Have another go at him!”
But Frank, who could neither see nor hear distinctly, was too groggy to rise, and the village girls drew together in an alarmed group. Such violent treatment of the squire’s son savored of sacrilege. They were sure that Martin would receive some condign punishment by the law for pummeling a superior being so unmercifully.
Angèle, somewhat frightened herself, tried to console her discomfited champion.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “It was all my fault.”
“Oh, go away!” he protested. “Ernest, where’s there a pump?”
Assisted by his brother, he struggled to his feet. His nose was bleeding freely and his face was ghastly in the moonlight. But he was a spirited youngster. He held out a hand to Martin.
“I’ve had enough just now,” he said, with an attempt at a smile. “Some other day, when my eye is all right, I’d like to——”
A woman’s scream of terror, a man’s cry of agony, startled the silent night and nearly scared the children out of their wits.
Someone came running up the garden path. It was Kitty Thwaites. She swayed unsteadily as she ran; her arms were lifted in frantic supplication.
“Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you’ve killed him!” she wailed. “Murder! Murder! Come, someone! For God’s sake, come!”