At the sight of the young woman, the Savage started, recoiled, turned pale.
The seconds passed. Her lips moved, she was saying something; but the sound of her voice was covered by the loud reiterated refrain of the sightseers. The young woman pressed both hands to her left side, and on that peach-bright, doll-beautiful face of hers appeared a strangely incongrous expression of yearning distress. Her blue eyes seemed to grow larger, brighter; and suddenly two tears rolled down her cheeks. Inaudibly, she spoke again; then, with a quick, impassioned gesture stretched out her arms towards the Savage, stepped forward. And all of a sudden they had what they wanted. "Strumpet!" The Savage had rushed at her like a madman. "Fitchew!" Like a madman, he was slashing at her with his whip of small cords. Terrified, she had turned to flee, had tripped and fallen in the heather.