“But you’re killing her!” he cried. “See, there’s blood in her mouth!”
“Obey me this instant!” he roared. “Leave me!”
“No,” Smayle answered, “I won’t!” And, springing upon his master, he managed, after a desperate struggle, to drag his hands free of the kneeling woman’s throat and fling him back with a smothered oath. “I won’t see a woman murdered in that cowardly way,” he declared vehemently, “even if you are my master?”
“What the devil do my affairs concern you, Smayle?” Tristram demanded fiercely, glaring at his servant, and glancing at Gemma, now fallen back prostrate on the floor, her hat crushed beneath her, her fair hair escaping from its pins.
“They concern me as far as this, sir—that you shall leave this room at once. If the lady is dead, then you’ve committed murder, and I am witness of it!”
“You’d denounce me, would you?” the Captain shrieked with rage, his hands still clenched in a fierce paroxysm of anger. Then, next instant he sprang at him.
But Smayle was a slim, athletic fellow, and, like most of the genus Tommy Atkins, knew how to use his fists when occasion required. He jumped aside, nimbly evaded the blow his master aimed at him, and cleverly tripped up his adversary, so that he fell headlong to the ground, bringing down from its pedestal a pretty Neapolitan statuette, which was smashed to atoms.
Tristram quickly rose with an imprecation, but Smayle, again grappling with him, succeeded at length, after an encounter long and fierce, in flinging him out of the room, and locking the door.
Then instantly he turned towards the white-faced woman, and, kneeling beside her, endeavoured to restore her to consciousness. With his handkerchief he staunched the blood slowly trickling from the corners of her pale lips, placed a cushion beneath her head, and snatching some flowers from a bowl, sprinkled her face with the water. Her white, delicate throat was dark and discoloured where his master’s rough hands had pressed it in his violent attempt to strangle her, her dress was torn open at the neck, and her gold necklet she had worn, with its tiny enamelled medallion, lay upon the ground, broken by the sudden, frantic attack. Tenderly the soldier-servant stroked her hair, chafed her hands, and endeavoured to restore her to consciousness, but all in vain. Inert and helpless she remained while he held her head, gazing upon her admiringly, but unable to determine the best course to pursue.
The outer door banged suddenly, and he knew his master had fled.