She was deathly pale and her black
eyes were wide open, the pupils dilated. Her teeth were
chattering in her head. She seemed incapable of speech or motion.
"Nur-el-Din?" exclaimed Matthews in accents of triumph. "Bring
her in, Harrison, and let's have a look at her!"
But the woman recoiled in terror. She arched her body stiff, like
a child in a passion, and strained every muscle to remain where
she was cowering by the inn-door.
"Come on, my girl," said the man not unkindly, "don't you 'ear
wot the Guv'nor sez! In you go!"
Then the girl screamed aloud.
"No, no!" she cried, "not in that house! For the love of God,
don't take me back into that room! Ah! For pity's sake, let me
stay outside! Take me to prison but not, not into that house
again!"
She half fell on her knees in the mire, pleading, entreating, her
body shaken by sobs.
Then Harrison, who was an ex-Guardsman and a six-footer at that,
plucked her off her feet and carried her, still struggling, still
imploring with piteous cries, over the threshold into the house:
Matthews followed behind.
The shutters of the tap-room were still closed. Only a strip of
the dirty floor, strewn with sawdust, was illuminated by a bar of
reddish light from the daybreak outside. On the table a candle,
burnt down to the socket of its brass candlestick, flared and
puttered in a riot of running wag.
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