Beholding his adversary stretched out perfectly still, his face to the
sky, Lieut. D'Hubert thought he had killed him outright. The impression
of having slashed hard enough to cut his man clean in two abode with him
for a while in an exaggerated memory of the right good-will he had
put into the blow. He dropped on his knees hastily by the side of the
prostrate body. Discovering that not even the arm was severed, a slight
sense of disappointment mingled with the feeling of relief. The fellow
deserved the worst. But truly he did not want the death of that sinner.
The affair was ugly enough as it stood, and Lieut. D'Hubert addressed
himself at once to the task of stopping the bleeding. In this task it
was his fate to be ridiculously impeded by the pretty maid. Rending the
air with screams of horror, she attacked him from behind and, twining
her fingers in his hair, tugged back at his head. Why she should
choose to hinder him at this precise moment he could not in the least
understand. He did not try. It was all like a very wicked and harassing
dream.
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