A vague confusion swam before her
eyes. Her knees doubled under her. She sank down in a huddled heap, and
lay quivering.
There came to her the sound of struggling, the sound of cursing, the
sound of blows. But, sick and spent, she heeded none of these things,
till a certain monotony of sound began to drum itself into her senses.
She came to full understanding to see Dinghra, in the grip of an
Englishman, being hideously thrashed with his own horsewhip. He was
quite powerless in that grip, but he would fight to the end, and it
seemed that the end was not far off. The punishment must have been going
on for many seconds. For his face was quite livid and streaked with
blood, his hands groped blindly, beating the air, he staggered at each
blow.
The whip fell flail-like, with absolute precision and regularity. It
spared no part of him. His coat was nearly torn off. In one place, on
the shoulder, the white shirt was exposed, and this also was streaked
with blood.
Ernestine crouched under the tree and watched. But very soon a new fear
sprang up within her, a fear that made her collect all her strength for
action. It was something in that awful, livid face that prompted her.
She struggled stiffly to her feet, later she wondered how, and drew near
to the two men. The whirling whip continued to descend, but she had no
fear of that. She came quite close till she was almost under the
upraised arm.
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