Philip's one
thought was to get away from that room at whatever sacrifice
of nobility or pride.
Gino was now at the further end of the room, groping by
the little tables. Suddenly the instinct came to him. He
crawled quickly to where Philip lay and had him clean by the
elbow.
The whole arm seemed red-hot, and the broken bone grated
in the joint, sending out shoots of the essence of pain.
His other arm was pinioned against the wall, and Gino had
trampled in behind the stove and was kneeling on his legs.
For the space of a minute he yelled and yelled with all the
force of his lungs. Then this solace was denied him. The
other hand, moist and strong, began to close round his throat.
At first he was glad, for here, he thought, was death at
last. But it was only a new torture; perhaps Gino inherited
the skill of his ancestors--and childlike ruffians who flung
each other from the towers. Just as the windpipe closed,
the hand fell off, and Philip was revived by the motion of
his arm. And just as he was about to faint and gain at last
one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would
struggle instead against the pressure on his throat.
Vivid pictures were dancing through the pain--Lilia dying
some months back in this very house, Miss Abbott bending
over the baby, his mother at home, now reading evening
prayers to the servants. He felt that he was growing
weaker; his brain wandered; the agony did not seem so
great. Not all Gino's care could indefinitely postpone the
end.
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