These things quickly goaded
her to a fuller consciousness. Exhausted though she was, she managed to
collect her senses and look down upon the spectacle below her.
There, on the edge of the fountain, two figures swayed and fought. One
of them she saw at a glance was Fletcher. She had a glimpse of his face
in the uncanny gloom, and it was set and devilish, bestial in its
cruelty. The other--the other--she stared and gasped and stared
again--the other, beyond all possibility of doubt, was the ancient
snake-charmer of Farabad.
Yet it was he who cursed--and cursed in excellent English--with a
fluency that none but English lips could possibly have achieved. And the
reason for his eloquence was not far to seek. For he was being thrashed,
thrashed scientifically, mercilessly, and absolutely thoroughly--by the
man whom he had dared to thwart.
He was draped as before in his long native garment--and this, though it
hung in tatters, hampered his movements, and must have placed him at a
hopeless disadvantage even had he not been completely outmatched in the
first place.
Standing on the steps above them, Beryl took in the whole situation, and
in a trice her own weakness was a thing of the past. Amazed,
incredulous, bewildered as she was, the urgent need for action drove all
questioning from her mind. There was no time for that. With a cry, she
sprang downwards.
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