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Page 77
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 cry--a cry of interrogation it might be called.
Below there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the
baby's milk.
"Go to him," said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. "Pick
him up. Treat him kindly."
She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His
eyes were filling with trouble. He bent down, as if he
would gently raise him up.
"Help! help!" moaned Philip. His body had suffered too
much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him.
Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above
him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend
in her arms.
"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him
for me."
Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his
face. Then she said gravely to them both, "This thing stops
here."
"Latte! latte!" cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending
the stairs.
"Remember," she continued, "there is to be no revenge.
I will have no more intentional evil. We are not to fight
with each other any more."
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