He was at that moment uppermost. Scarcely had the words passed my lips, when he had leaped to his feet and ran towards the tent; and the next moment, he was straining Clara to his heart and covering her unconscious hands and face with his caresses.
“Shame!” I cried. “Shame to you, Northmour!”
And, giddy though I still was, I struck him repeatedly upon the head and shoulders.
He relinquished his grasp, and faced me in the broken moonlight.
“I had you under, and I let you go,” said he; “and now you strike me! Coward!”
“You are the coward,” I retorted. “Did she wish your kisses while she was still sensible of what she wanted? Not she! And now she may be dying; and you waste this precious time, and abuse her helplessness. Stand aside, and let me help her.”
He confronted me for a moment, white and menacing; then suddenly he stepped aside.
“Help her then,” said he.
I threw myself on my knees beside her, and loosened, as well as I was able, her dress and corset; but while I was thus engaged, a grasp descended on my shoulder.
“Keep your hands off her,” said Northmour fiercely. “Do you think I have no blood in my veins?”