There came gaspingly: "Promise—promise—oath to it."
He relaxed his fingers, and as Hunt drew gasping breaths, "You damned devil!" he cried again. "You damned fool. Did you not hear talk of proofs? Nothing in them! Nothing in them! Can you hear that?"
He was thrown on his side, he was grappled with by one whom fear of death gave strength, his clutch was eluded and Hunt sprang free.
"Nothing in them! What's your murder fingers for, then? Nothing in them—what you say 'Mother' for, then? Nothing in them—what—keep away! Keep off of me!" He whipped from his pocket what had gleamed in his hand. "Keep off of me! I'll fire. By God, I'll let you have it if you come at me!"
An' come at him, an' come at him, an' come at him, as of Percival in the fight the old men say.
Quick and straight as he had leapt at Pinsent, now quick and straight he leapt at Hunt. Quick and straight then to win victory, now quick and straight in victory already gained. Quick and straight he leapt; quicker the pistol spoke; without reel or stumble he pitched to earth.
There came a scream of hideous sound from Hunt, and screaming still he turned and fled, screaming was answered by a shout, and screaming ran to the hold of tall men come out of the night in his pursuit and close, yet very late, before he screamed.
From Ima no cry nor sound. She cast herself beside the figure that lay there, looked in its face and had no need for word or question; pressed her lips to his and then cried only, "Little master! ah, ah, Percival!"
She threw herself full length upon him where full length he lay. With her body she shielded him from the immense rain, with her arms enfolded him, put her mouth to his.
So she lay scarcely breathing; so she held him—hers, her own.