d her struggle
for breath. With every moment her strength was ebbing, the faint
whistling sounds emerged less frequently from her writhing lips, the
black tint deepened on her cheeks, even as she gazed, the staring eyes
rolled and fixed.

Then Peignton pounced. Like a wild beast leaping on its prey, he
pounced upon the prostrate form, and lifting it in his arms he shook and
tore, he dragged and bent. The two women shrieked, and hid their faces.
Of all the terrors that had been, the most ghastly and blood-curdling
of all was the sight of this maniac figure with its superhuman strength,
and the jointless, lifeless form, tossed to and fro; beaten, abused.
The onlookers thought,--if thought were possible,--that Dane had gone
mad. It seemed the crowning horror that in death Cassandra's body
should be so outraged; but they had no strength to move or protest.

Suddenly came a cry; a cry of triumph, not grief. Peignton had sunk to
the ground, but Cassandra lay in his arms, and the breath was once more
whistling through her lips.

"It has moved!" he cried. "It has moved! She breathes. For God's
sake, _Water_!"

In a second it was in his hand, and Teresa knelt, holding the jug, while
he sprinkled drops on the dark brow, and moistened the cracking lips.
The face resting against his shoulder was still unrecognisable, still
terrible to see, but momentarily life was flowing back. The brutal
wildness of Dane's assault had done its work in removing the block, and
air was rushing back into the flattened lungs. The marvellous intricacy
of the machine of life was at work once more...

Peignton bathed, and the two women knelt by his side, watching with
fascinated eyes. Gradually as the dark hue faded, other marks came into
view, the marks of bruises left by frenzied fingers. There were marks
on Cassandra's brow, on her cheek, on the slim column of her throat, on
her hands, on the arms beneath the torn fragments of sleeves.
Everywhere there were bruises. The women held their breath at the
sight, Peignton groaned and shuddered as with a nausea of horror, but he
went on bathing, his hand resolutely steadied to hoard the precious
drops. Only once, with an uncontrollable impulse, he bent and pressed
his lips against the most cruel of the marks, holding her close the
while, crooning over her in a passion of tenderness, and as he lifted
his head Cassandra's eyes opened, and looked upward into his face. They
were conscious eye