Perhaps this was fortunate, for she would have fared badly if the
enraged lads had had her in their power, when all, amid the confused
medley of outcries, had learned the truth. There was no time to pursue
her, for Pista seemed to be constantly growing worse; the cold water
and fomentations did not stop the bleeding; he soon lost consciousness
and lay on the ground amid the terrified, helpless group, an inert
mass, until some one made the sensible proposal to carry him home to
his mother, a poor widow, which, with their united strength, was
instantly done.
Meanwhile, Panna had rushed to her own home, locked herself in, and sat
on the bench by the stove, an image of grief and despair. She was
incapable of coherent thought, nothing but the spectacle of the
bleeding Pista staggering against the wall, stood distinctly before her
mind. But she could not give herself up to her desolate brooding long:
at the end of fifteen minutes the bolted door shook violently. She
started up and listened; it was her father, and she reluctantly went to
the door and opened it. The old man entered, shot the bolt behind him,
and asked in a trembling voice:
"For God's sake, child, what have you done?'"
Panna burst into a flood of tears; they were the first she had shed
since the incident described.
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