* * * * * *
Would she ever get to her room, Arithelli wondered, as she struggled
down the passage. It had never seemed so long before. Her hand went
up to her throat again. She longed for something cool to drink to
relieve the aching and dryness. It must be caused by the heat and dust
of the ring, she thought.
A man's voice sounded behind her, and then hurrying footsteps. She
pulled her long blue cloak round her and went on without answering or
turning her head. It could only be the Manager coming to upbraid her.
An arm was flung round her protectingly and she turned with the face of
a hunted animal, and looked up into the wild dark eyes of Vardri.
"What has happened? You're ill! It's no wonder. _Mon Dieu_, those
brutes last night . . ."
He pulled her head back against his shoulder, dropping his voice to a
murmur of exquisite gentleness. "_Mon enfant--ma petite enfant_!"
"You saw me fall?" she whispered.
"The men told me when they brought Don Juan out. I didn't see what
happened. Were you hurt or only faint?"
"Oh, my hand? That's nothing.
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