"I must," said Moya. "There's the horse; the saddle's quite near; you shall have all the help that I can bring you, with all the speed that's possible."
She moved away, and the ruthless sun played on every inch of him once more.
"I'm burning—burning!" he yelled. "Have I been in hell upon earth all these years to go to hell itself before I die? Move me, for Christ's sake! Only get me into the shade, and I'll confess—I'll confess!"
Moya tried; but it was terrible; he shrieked with agony, foaming at the mouth, and beating her off with feeble fists. So then she flung herself bodily on an infant hop-bush, and actually uprooted it. And with this and some mallee-branches she made a gunyah over him, though he said it stifled him, and complained bitterly to the end. At the end of all Moya knelt at his feet.
"Now keep your promise."
"What promise?" he asked with an oath, for Moya had been milder than her word.
"You said you would confess."
"Confess what?" he cried, a new terror in his eyes. "I'm not going to die! I don't feel like dying! I've no more to confess!"
"Oh, yes, you have—that you're not his father—nor yet Captain Bovill."
"But I tell you I am. Why—" and the pallid face lit up suddenly—"even the police know that, and you know that they know it!"