As the figure moved again uneasily, half sitting up in the snow, the men rushed forward.
"Here they are—the gypsies! We have them! They were stealing the sleigh, the rascals!"
As they sprang at Velasco, surrounding him, there came suddenly a swift whizz through the air, a singing as of a hornet, and the heavy lash struck them, across the face, the eyes, the shoulders, stinging and sharp, leaving cruel welts as it struck. The driver screamed out, half blinded. The gendarmes started back. Petrokoff fell on his knees and cowered behind a bush, his fat body trembling and his hands outstretched as if praying:
"For the love of the saints!" he cried, "Don't strike!"
The lash flashed through the air, blinding and terrible in its rapidity. The gypsey leaned over the dash-board, her face white, her eyes dark with rage, her cap on the back of her yellow curls; and the whip seemed to leap between her fingers like something alive.
"Velasco!" she screamed, "Get up! Come—ah, come, while I beat them, the fiends!"
The cry seemed to pierce the benumbed brain of her companion, as the lash the skin. The dark patch moved again and Velasco struggled to his feet; he ran towards the sleigh. The girl leaned forward once more and as the gendarmes sprang towards them again, swearing at her and shouting, she lashed them fiercely across the face and the eyes, mercilessly, with little cries of rage. Velasco tumbled in beside her on the seat.
"Are you there?" she cried, "Are you safe?"
Then she turned, and loosening the reins the lash fell on the horses, cutting them sharply; and they dashed forward, the foam dripping from their bits and their hoofs striking sparks from the ice as they fled, galloping madly, swiftly, through the snow.
In a moment the inn was left behind, the shouting and swearing died away in the distance, and there was silence, broken only by the panting of the horses and the sound of their hoofs galloping. Kaya still urged them forward, shaking the reins in her left hand and lashing with the whip.