Arithelli herself scarcely heard the sounds of execration, as she stood swaying with one hand over her eyes to shut out the horrible glare. She was conscious only of that and the strident noise of the band, and the sensation of choking she had felt once before. The instinct of all animals to hide themselves in the dark when ill, was strong upon her.
The fat little ring-master who alone had the sense to see there was something wrong, advanced and spoke to her in an agitated whisper. She gave him her hand and he led her out, leaving her hurriedly to go back and apologise to the irate spectators, and to claim their indulgence on the score of her sudden faintness.
* * * * * *
Would she ever get to her room, Arithelli wondered, as she struggled down the passage. It had never seemed so long before. Her hand went up to her throat again. She longed for something cool to drink to relieve the aching and dryness. It must be caused by the heat and dust of the ring, she thought.
A man's voice sounded behind her, and then hurrying footsteps. She pulled her long blue cloak round her and went on without answering or turning her head. It could only be the Manager coming to upbraid her.
An arm was flung round her protectingly and she turned with the face of a hunted animal, and looked up into the wild dark eyes of Vardri.
"What has happened? You're ill! It's no wonder. Mon Dieu, those brutes last night . . ."
He pulled her head back against his shoulder, dropping his voice to a murmur of exquisite gentleness. "Mon enfant—ma petite enfant!"
"You saw me fall?" she whispered.
"The men told me when they brought Don Juan out. I didn't see what happened. Were you hurt or only faint?"