She laid trembling hands upon a grey tweed coat.
"Let him go!" she said very urgently. "Let him go--while he can!"
Rivington looked down into her white face. He was white himself--white
to the lips.
"I haven't done with him yet," he said, and he spoke between his teeth.
"I know," she said. "I know. But he has had enough. You mustn't kill
him."
She was strangely calm, and her calmness took effect. Later, she
wondered at that also.
Rivington jerked the exhausted man upright.
"Go back!" he said to Ernestine. "Go back! I won't kill him!"
She took him at his word, and went back. She heard Rivington speak
briefly and sternly, and Dinghra mumbled something in reply. She heard
the shuffling of feet, and knew that Rivington was helping him to walk.
For a little while she watched the two figures, the one supporting the
other, as they moved slowly away. Dinghra's head was sunk upon his
breast. He slunk along like a beaten dog. Then the trunk of a tree hid
them from her sight.
When that happened, Ernestine suffered herself to collapse upon the
moss, with her head upon her arms.
Lying thus, she presently heard once more the tread of a horse's feet,
and counted each footfall mechanically. They grew fainter and fainter,
till at last the forest silence swallowed them, and a great solitude
seemed to wrap her round.
Minutes passed. She did not stir.
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