generally does in modern
life--except at school. But when it is caused by the malignity of a
man, full grown, fashioned like ourselves, all our control disappears.
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. His yells and
gurgles became mechanical--functions of the tortured flesh rather than
true notes of indignation and despair. He was conscious of a horrid
tumbling. Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everything
was quiet at last.

"But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear Gino. Your son is
dead."

The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by the shoulders,
holding him down in a chair. She was exhausted with the struggle, and
her arms were trembling.

"What is the good of another death? What is the good of more pain?"

He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip,
whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. Miss
Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gave
a loud and curious