Cassandra was being suffocated; moment by moment the inhalations of breath became more difficult, her strength was weakening beneath the strain, but still she struggled and fought, and raised wild arms to the sky, while moment by moment, youth, beauty, and charm fell away from the blackening face, leaving behind nothing but a mask of torture and despair.
Both the women were weeping, but they were unconscious of their tears. At that moment existence meant nothing more than an anguished realisation of helplessness. Theirs was the most lacerating trial of life,—the torture of looking on helplessly, and watching a fellow-creature done to death.
Then suddenly the scene changed. Cassandra’s limbs gave way, and she fell to the ground, and as she fell Peignton fell after her, and knelt by her side. To the onlookers the man’s face was as unrecognisable as that of the woman; in both was the same terror, the same despair, almost it appeared, the same suffering. It was a voice which they had never heard before, which spoke now, uttering wild appealing words:
“Cassandra—Darling! Oh, my precious, what can I do for you?... God show me what to do! Oh, my God, to standby and see this... I’d give my soul... It can’t be.—It can’t. It’s not possible!... Cassandra, try, try! For my sake, for my sake, darling... How am I to live...”
The wild words surged on. Did anyone hear? or hearing understand? Even to Teresa herself they seemed for the moment to voice nothing but the cry of her own heart. The shadow of death had obliterated the things of life; nothing counted, nothing mattered, but Cassandra, and her struggle for breath. With every moment her strength was ebbing, the faint whistling sounds emerged less frequently from her writhing lips, the black tint deepened on her cheeks, even as she gazed, the staring eyes rolled and fixed.
Then Peignton pounced. Like a wild beast leaping on its prey, he pounced upon the prostrate form, and lifting it in his arms he shook and tore, he dragged and bent. The two women shrieked, and hid their faces. Of all the terrors that had been, the most ghastly and blood-curdling of all was the sight of this maniac figure with its superhuman strength, and the jointless, lifeless form, tossed to and fro; beaten, abused. The onlookers thought,—if thought were possible,—that Dane had gone mad. It seemed the crowning horror that in death Cassandra’s body should be so outraged; but they had no strength to move or protest.
Suddenly came a cry; a cry of triumph, not grief. Peignton had sunk to the ground, but Cassandra lay in his arms, and the breath was once more whistling through her lips.
“It has moved!” he cried. “It has moved! She breathes. For God’s sake, Water!”
In a second it was in his hand, and Teresa knelt, holding the jug, while he sprinkled drops on the dark brow, and moistened the cracking lips. The face resting against his shoulder was still unrecognisable, still terrible to see, but momentarily life was flowing back. The brutal wildness of Dane’s assault had done its work in removing the block, and air was rushing back into the flattened lungs. The marvellous intricacy of the machine of life was at work once more...
Peignton bathed, and the two women knelt by his side, watching with fascinated eyes. Gradually as the dark hue faded, other marks came into view, the marks of bruises left by frenzied fingers. There were marks on Cassandra’s brow, on her cheek, on the slim column of her throat, on her hands, on the arms beneath the torn fragments of sleeves. Everywhere there were bruises. The women held their breath at the sight, Peignton groaned and shuddered as with a nausea of horror, but he went on bathing, his hand resolutely steadied to hoard the precious drops. Only once, with an uncontrollable impulse, he bent and pressed his lips against the most cruel of the marks, holding her close the while, crooning over her in a passion of tenderness, and as he lifted his head Cassandra’s eyes opened, and looked upward into his face. They were conscious eyes, and the opening of them brought back the first resemblance to that Cassandra who had so horribly lost her identity. Deeply, darkly blue they stared out of the disfigured face, met Dane’s adoring gaze, and gazed back. For a moment it seemed as though the wraith of a smile were dawning in their depths, then pain claimed her once more, and she groaned and winced, lifting a hand to her bruised throat. It was a piteous little action, and Dane’s self-possession broke down at the sight. Once more he bent his head to hers. Once more the caressing words burst forth.