It was the string of foul words that, under a sufficient
impetus, infallibly comes rolling from the peasant's tongue--an
explosion as natural as when a thunderbolt scatters a muck-heap at the
roadside.
Then, snarling and growling like an animal, he stooped and cuffed her.
"Will!" "Will!" She repeated his name between the blows. She did not
utter a word of complaint, or make an effort to escape. Brave and
unflinching, though almost stunned, she raised her white blood-stained
face for him to strike again each time that he buffed it from him.
"Will!" "Will!"
But her courage and submissiveness were driving him mad, had changed
suspicion to certainty. Only guilt could make her take her punishment
this way. Nevertheless she must confess the guilt herself. Even in his
fury, he remembered to hold his hand open and not clench it--like a
cruelly strong animal, tormenting its prey before killing, careful to
keep it alive.
"Answer me. Go on with your tale."
"Then stop beating me, and I'll tell you."
He stayed his hand, poised it, and she seized it and clung to it.
"Will--as God sees me--I did it for your sake--only to help you. I
couldn't get the help unless I sacrificed myself to save you."
Wrenching his hand away he knocked her to the ground, and she lay face
downward.
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