Until it drew he could not get back into the cleft, for his pinned-up hand was upon that side. When he rested from his bouts of self-torture he indemnified himself by assailing her with insults and taunts, governing his voice lest she should guess how far he was gone. She did guess, and with chattering teeth gave him fully as good as she took. It was very pitiful, inexpressibly vulgar, this nose-to-nose pitched battle of primeval Billingsgate. Lo, did ye think that passionate hate first found expression in our time?
He played upon her shaken nerves. Could she not see those child-eating boys, sitting at her either elbow, their reddened teeth a-work, click! click! To which sally Dêh-Yān, stroking her own hair and pointing down to his, rejoined that his scalp should hang from her belt ere night with the top-knots of the other two. "And, ah me! I have no knife, Lo-Mah; shall I find it under thine arm?—or am I to borrow thine for our little business?" With other like endearments. Pity them both.
In the middle of one of her ripostes the girl choked, for the last barb had given, his arm was free. Nodding to her mutely, for he was well-nigh sick with agony, the man brought his hand down; he stripped the feathers, biting the gut whipping, and took the barbs in his teeth; he had but to draw the nock through his forearm and would be not only free but weaponed.
He drew inch by inch, it came, he had it in his hand. "Now, my Heart, I begin. Wait for me, my dove, my love! I am coming for thee!"
He shook the new snow from his ears, shifted his hold, lifted a foot, still grimly nodding his unspoken threat, and—next moment was reeling out into empty air, whilst a huge bird which had dealt the buffet, staggered past and plunged, then opening wide wings regained its balance and swept short zigzags down—down in pursuit of its falling booty.
STALE MATE
But the Master-Girl beat her little fists upon the stone and wept. "I would have killed him yet," she wailed in that bitterness of spirit which overcomes the bravest when the ideal perfection of some all-but achieved success has been marred at the ultimate moment.
It is always so in life. Napoleon instead of yielding his sword to the conquering Briton, rattles off from his last battle-field in a well-horsed calèche. Nor did every French ship strike her colours at Trafalgar. Nor did the allies enter Sevastopol on the night of the Alma, as they might have done so easily; nor did Kitchener catch the gallant and adroit De Wet.