Now, to touch a child or dog or cat in Mrs. Connart’s presence was to raise a devil. White as death she rushed into the house and white as death she rushed out again. She held her riding-whip, a Mexican quirt, ladies’ size, but horribly efficient in energetic hands.
Seedbaum saw her coming, couldn’t understand, caught the first lash on his right arm and along his back—he was wearing the pyjama suit—and his yell brought the village flocking and Connart running from a field where he was laying out some plants.
He saw the quirt lashing over Seedbaum’s shoulder, across his legs, and across the back, for the King of Maleka was now running, running and pursued for ten yards or so whilst the quirt got one last blow in.
Then he had his wife in his arms, and she was weeping.
“Did he touch you?” cried Connart.
“No—it was a child,” she gasped. “Beast! Look, he has run into his house.”
The street was filled with a crowd that all through the beating had remained spell-bound. Now it broke up into knots and small parties, all talking together excitedly.
Connart, with his arm around his wife, drew her into the house.
She sat down on a couch and laughed and sobbed. She was half hysterical, but not for long.
“I couldn’t help it,” she said. “I would do it again. It’s not because of us—but because he was beating a child.”