She bit at the hand that he held crushed against her mouth. He lifted her bodily, flung her onto the bed, and, twisting sheet and quilt around her, swathed her to the throat. Still controlling her violently distorted lips with his left hand and holding her so, one knee upon her, he reached back, unsheathed his hunting knife, and pricked her throat till the blood spurted. "Now, gol ram yeh!" he whispered fiercely, "where's Mike's packet? Yell, and I'll hog-stick yeh fur fair! Where is it, you dum thing!" He took his left hand from her mouth. The distorted, scarlet lips writhed back, displaying her white teeth clenched. "Where's Mike's bundle!" he repeated, hoarse with rage and fear. "You rat!" she gasped. At that he closed her mouth again, and again he pricked her with his knife, cruelly. The blood welled up onto the sheets. "Now, by God!" he said in a ghastly voice, "answer or I'll hog-stick yeh next time! Where is it? Where! where!" She only showed her teeth in answer. Her eyes flamed. "Where! Quick! Gol ding yeh, I'll shove this knife in behind your ear if you don't tell! Go on. Where is it? It's in this Dump som'ers. I know it is--don't lie! You want that I should stick you good? That what you want--you dirty little dump-slut? Well, then, gol ram yeh--I'll fix yeh like Quintana was aimin' at----" He slit the sheet downward from her imprisoned knees, seized one wounded foot and tried to slash the bandages. "I'll cut a coupla toes off'n yeh," he snarled, "--I'll hamstring yeh fur keeps!"--struggling to mutilate her while she flung her helpless and entangled body from side to side and bit at the hand that was almost suffocating her. Unable to hold her any longer, he seized a pillow, to bury the venomous little head that writhed, biting, under his clutch. As he lifted it he saw a packet lying under it. "By God!" he panted. As he seized it she screamed for the first time: "Jack! Jack Stormont!"--and fairly hurled her helpless little body at Leverett, striking him full in the face with her head. Half stunned, still clutching the packet, he tried to stab her in the stomach; but the armour of bed-clothes turned the knife, although his violence dashed all breath out of her. Sick with the agony of it, speechless, she still made the effort; and, as he stumbled to his feet and turned to escape, she struggled upright, choking, blood running from the knife pricks in her neck. With the remnant of her strength, and still writhing and gasping for breath, she tore herself from the sheets and blankets, reeled across the room to where Stormont's rifle stood, threw in a cartridge, dragged herself to the window. Dimly she saw a running figure in the night mist, flung the rifle across the window sill and fired. Then she fired again--or thought she did. There were two shots. "Eve!" came Stormont's sharp cry, "what the devil are you trying to do to me?" His cry terrified her; the rifle clattered to the floor.