Great terror is nothing more or less than temporary loss of hope. In that moment Bess was finding out what real hopelessness meant, so far as it is ever possible for human beings to know. For that moment she couldn’t see a rift in the darkness that enfolded her. In the first place she felt infinitely alone: Knutsen was dead; Lenore still sat yielding to self-pity; Ned still extended to her his solicitous care. The thing went beyond mere fear of death. She could conceive of possibilities now wherein death would be a thing desired and prayed for; a deliverance from a living hell that was infinitely worse. The terror that was upon her was incomparable with any previous experience of her life.
Yet her eyes remained dry. Some way, she was beyond the beneficence of tears; partly because of her terror, partly, perhaps, because the instinct was with her yet to hide the truth from Ned and Lenore so long as possible. Thus she was not, in the last analysis, absolutely bereft of hope. It might be, since Ned was a man and she a woman, he would never become the prey of Doomsdorf to such a degree as she herself. And now there was no time to try to formulate other plans; to seek some other gateway of escape; no time more to listen to Ned’s complaints of her inattention to Lenore. She heard Doomsdorf’s heavy step at the door.
The man came in, for an instant standing framed by the doorway, the light of morning behind him. Ned looked up, expecting some inquiry as to his own and Lenore’s condition, some word of greeting on his lips. It came about, however, that his thought fell quickly into other channels. Doomsdorf closed the door behind him.
The man turned contemptuously to Ned. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
Startled and indignant at the tone, Ned instinctively straightened. “I didn’t say anything was the matter. Where’s Knutsen?”
“Knutsen—has gone on. Hell didn’t suit him. He went against its mandates the first thing. I hope it doesn’t happen again—I would hate to lose any more of you. I’ve other plans in mind.”
Ned hardly understood, yet his face went white. Partly it was anger because of the unmistakable insult and contempt in Doomsdorf’s tone. Partly it was a vague fear that his good sense would not permit him to credit. “I don’t—I don’t understand, I’m afraid,” he remarked coldly. “We’ll talk it over later. At present I want to know where we can put this girl to bed. She’s in a serious condition from her last night’s experience.”
The lips curled under the great blond beard. “I may put her to bed, all right—if I like her looks,” he answered evenly. “It won’t be your bed, either.”
Appalled, unbelieving, yet obeying a racial instinct that goes back to the roots of time, Ned dropped the girl from his arms and leaped to his feet. His eyes blazed with a magnificent burst of fury, and a mighty oath was at his lips. “You——” he began.
Yet no second word came. Doomsdorf’s great body lunged across the room with the ferocity and might of a charging bear. His arm went out like a javelin, great fingers extended, and clutched with the effect of a mighty mechanical trap the younger man’s throat. He caught him as he might catch a vicious dog he intended to kill, snatching him off his feet. Ned’s arm lashed out impotently, and forcing through with his own body, Doomsdorf thrust him into the corner. For a moment he battered him back and forth, hammering his head against the wall, then let him fall to a huddled heap on the floor.