He flung down his long whip, and retired
muttering vengeance.
The Manager strode into the centre of the ring, picked up the lash and
drew it through his fingers.
He swore at Arithelli, he swore at Don Juan, and he started the
rehearsal all over again.
Arithelli clenched her teeth and rode doggedly forward. The arena swam
before her, and her limbs felt weak and heavy as those of one who is
drugged, and her lacerated hand added to her difficulties. That she
should presume to be ill, had not entered into the Manager's
calculations. If he had realised the fact he would have said that
people who were ill were of no use in a circus, and the sooner she left
it the better.
The treadmill continued until Arithelli would have welcomed an accident
as a break in the grinding monotony. The exercise instead of making
her hot, had made her shiver as if with great cold. She felt as if she
had been practising for days instead of hours. It was of no use! She
could not go on any longer. She slipped from her standing position on
the broad pad saddle to Don Juan's back, and without waiting for the
word of command, reined him to a standstill in front of the Manager.
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