.

"If I do," he said, with a fiendish smile, "I shall find a remedy. But
so long as you hate me, I shall not grow tired of you!"

And with that he suddenly and savagely pressed his lips to hers.

XI

THE TIGER'S PUNISHMENT

That single kiss was to Ernestine the climax and zenith of horror. It
seemed to sear and blister her very soul with an anguish of repulsion
that would scar her memory for all time. She retained her consciousness,
but she never knew by what lightning stroke she was set free. She was
too dazed, too blinded, by her horror to realise. But suddenly the cruel
grip that had her helpless was gone. A vague confusion swam before her
eyes. Her knees doubled under her. She sank down in a huddled heap, and
lay quivering.

There came to her the sound of struggling, the sound of cursing, the
sound of blows. But, sick and spent, she heeded none of these things,
till a certain monotony of sound began to drum itself into her senses.
She came to full understanding to see Dinghra, in the grip of an
Englishman, being hideously thrashed with his own horsewhip. He was
quite powerless in that grip, but he would fight to the end, and it
seemed that the end was not far off. The punishment must have been going
on for many seconds. For his face was quite livid and streaked with
blood, his hands groped blindly, beating the air, he staggered at each
blow.

The whip fell flail-like, with absolute precision and regularity. It
spared no part of him. His coat was nearly torn off. In one place, on
the shoulder, the white shirt was exposed, and this also was streaked
with blood.

Ernestine crouched under the tree and watched. But very soon a new fear
sprang up within her, a fear that made her collect all her strength for
action. It was something in that awful, livid face that prompted her.

She struggled stiffly to her feet, later she wondered how, and drew near
to the two men. The whirling whip continued to descend, but she had no
fear of that. She came quite close till she was almost under the
upraised arm. She laid trembling hands upon a grey tweed coat.

"Let him go!" she said very urgently. "Let him go--while he can!"

Rivington looked down into her white face. He was white himself--white
to the lips.

"I haven't done with him yet," he said, and he spoke between his teeth.

"I know," she said. "I know. But he has had enough. You mustn't kill
him."

She was strangely calm, and her calmness took effect. La