Dawson stood fidgeting while she spoke with him. He seemed to be repeating a brief phrase over and over again, harshly and irritably; but she was cajoling, remonstrating, arguing, as he had seen her argue in that ill-fated room an hour back.
"What's the matter with him?" demanded Dawson impatiently.
"He says he won't let me go," answered the woman, with a tone of despair in her voice.
"The devil he won't! What's he got to do with it?"
"Oh, these little policemen, they always arrest me when they can," she replied, with a smile.
"Here, you!" cried Dawson, addressing himself to the man in uniform— "you go away. Voetsaak, see! You mind your own business, and get out."
The officer drawled something in his own tongue, which was, of course, unintelligible to Dawson, but it had the effect of annoying him strangely.
"You little beast!" he said, and knocked the man down with his fist.
"Run," hissed the woman at his elbow—"run before he can get up. No, not that way. To the church and out by another way!"
She caught his hand, and together they raced across the square and in through the big door.