Arithelli sat upright in bed; she had pushed back the clothes, and her
long fingers were dragging at the blue scarf. It was knotted at the
back under her plait of hair, and she had almost succeeded in loosening
it. The fatal inertia was passed, and she was beside herself with heat
and pain and the fight for breath.
A couple of strides brought Emile to the bedside. He caught her hands
between his own and drew them down.
"Listen, Arithelli," he said quietly. "You mustn't do that. This is
to cure your throat. It may hurt you now, but to-morrow you will be
better, _voyez-vous_?"
The girl writhed in his grasp, turning her head from side to side. The
wild eyes, the tense, quivering body, made Emile think of some forest
animal in a trap.
The bandage had fallen from her throat and therefore was useless, and
the aromatic scent of the crushed herbs was pungent in the air. He
remembered Michael's injunction, "See that she keeps it on. It's her
only chance."
She was still struggling frantically, and he needed both hands. For a
moment he meditated tying her wrists together, but he decided to trust
to his influence over her to make her do as he wished, she had always
obeyed him hitherto, and he knew that she was perfectly conscious now,
and capable of understanding what he wanted.
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