“Afraid?” She took some time considering this.  “No,” she said at length.  “I am not afraid of them.  I do not see them.  You are here.”

He took the tobacco-leaf from his lips, blew a thin cloud of smoke with grave deliberateness, and in doing so contrived to glance at her face.

“You have blood in you.  That face, too, my beauty,” he muttered, “never came to you but by gift of blood.”  Aloud he said, “That’s brave.  But take care when your senses clear and the strain comes back on you.  Speak to me when you feel it coming; I don’t want it to tauten you up with a jerk.  You understand?”

“Yes. . . .”

“I wonder now—­” he began musingly, and broke off.  The danger he had been keeping account with was over; Manasseh had returned with the two grooms, and they—­perfectly trained servants on the English model—­took their posts without exhibiting surprise by so much as a twitch of the face.  George in particular was a tight fellow with his fists, as the crowd, should it offer annoyance, would assuredly learn.  The Collector took the volume which Manasseh brought him, and opened it, but did not begin to read.  “You despise these people?” he asked.

He was puzzled with himself.  He was here to protect her; and this, from him to her, implied a noble condescension.  His fine manners, to be sure, forbade his showing it; on no account would he have shown it.  But the puzzle was, he could not feel it.

She met his eyes.  “No . . . why should I despise them?”

“They are canaille.”

“What does that mean? . . .  They have been cruel to me.  Afterwards, I expect, they will be crueller still.  But just now it does not matter, because you are here.”

“Does that make so much difference?” he asked thoughtlessly.

She caught her breath upon a sob.  “Ah, do not—­” The voice died, strangled, in her throat.  “Do not—­” Again she could get no further, but sat shivering, her fingers interlocked and writhing.

“Brute!” muttered the Collector to himself.  He did not ask her pardon, but opened his Calderon, signed to Manasseh to roll a fresh tobacco-leaf, and fell to reading his favourite Alcalde de Zalamea.

The sun crept slowly to the right over the tops of the maples.  It no longer scorched their faces, but slanted in rays through the upper boughs, dappling the open walks with splashes of light which, as they receded in distance, took by a trick of the eyesight a pattern regular as diaper.  By this time the Collector, when he glanced up from his book, had an ample view of the square, for the crowd had thinned.  The punishment of the stocks was no such rare spectacle in Port Nassau; and five hours is a tedious while even for the onlooker—­a very long while indeed to stand weighing the fun of throwing a handful of filth against the cost of a thrashing.  The men-folk, reasoning thus, had melted away to their