She writhed in a torture of reviving strength, and in her convulsions she almost tore from Ventner's grasp.
Slowly she relaxed and sank partly back.

The ungloved hand sought the wound, and pressed so hard that her wrist half buried itself in her bosom.

Blood trickled between her spread fingers.

And she looked at Venters with eyes that saw him.
He cursed himself and the unerring aim of which he had been so proud.

He had seen that look in the eyes of a crippled antelope which he was about to finish with his knife.