It was a big fellow who walked at Smith-Oldwick's left. Several
times he took hold of the Englishman's arm and pushed him forward
not ungently, but when the captive lagged again and again the
fellow suddenly, and certainly with no just provocation, flew into
a perfect frenzy of rage. He leaped upon the wounded man, striking
him viciously with his fists and, bearing him to the ground, grasped
his throat in his left hand while with his right he drew his long
sharp saber. Screaming terribly he waved the blade above his head.
The others stopped and turned to look upon the encounter with no
particular show of interest. It was as though one of the party had
paused to readjust a sandal and the others merely waited until he
was ready to march on again.
But if their captors were indifferent, Bertha Kircher was not. The
close-set blazing eyes, the snarling fanged face, and the frightful
screams filled her with horror, while the brutal and wanton attack
upon the wounded man aroused within her the spirit of protection
for the weak that is inherent in all women. Forgetful of everything
other than that a weak and defenseless man was being brutally murdered
before her eyes, the girl cast aside discretion and, rushing to
Smith-Oldwick's assistance, seized the uplifted sword arm of the
shrieking creature upon the prostrate Englishman.
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