Hallam turned down a side street, which was silent and deserted, passed a number of warehouses, and came out upon the fringe of the crowd. So far nothing had happened to fan the smouldering hate into a conflagration. It needed only, the white man realised, the throwing of a missile or the random discharge of a firearm, to rouse the mob to a frenzy of murderous activity. But so far the situation was in hand; the rioting came later.
It was difficult to say who started it, from which direction came that first shot that turned the sea of black swaying figures into a frenzied rabble of monomaniacs with a common enemy, the white man, the ruler, who, terribly outclassed in numbers, yet held the coloured man at bay. They were there, behind the walls, a handful of white men, police and ex-soldiers, armed, determined, cool-headed, maintaining law and authority against the vast rabble of native insurgents.
Hallam heard several shots fired; heard the yells of the mob; watched the ugly rush as it surged forward in one mighty wave of humanity. Sticks were wielded freely, stones and other missiles came into use; the noise swelled to pandemonium. To remain in the streets was unsafe. A white man would receive no quarter if the mob got hold of him. Aware of his danger, Hallam turned to retreat; and, as he made for the side street down which he had come, the sound of a woman’s scream arrested his attention. He halted and looked round. A white woman was struggling with a native a few yards from where he stood. It was the work of a minute to reach her; the next, he had the native by the throat and was choking the life out of him. The woman had fallen to the ground. She might be hurt, or she might have fainted: Hallam did not pause to find out. A couple of natives had seen them and were running towards them; if they came up with them, though he might succeed in shooting them, for he carried a revolver, it would bring the crowd upon them; and he and the woman he had rescued would inevitably perish. Stooping, he picked her up in his arms, and ran with her up the street, darting through the open door of a wool-shed, where he dropped her unceremoniously on a bale of hides and ran back to the door and secured it.
But there was no sign without of their pursuers. The chase of fugitive whites was less exciting than the bigger business in hand. The street was quiet, and wore an air of desertion, as if every man had left his post for the scene of greater activity.
Hallam turned from securing the door, and leaned with his shoulders against it, breathing hard, in quick short breaths. With the abrupt shutting out of the sunlight the interior of the building appeared dark; the insufficient light, which penetrated through the dirty windows, revealed everything dimly, like objects seen in the dusk. Neither Hallam nor the woman had spoken. They did not speak now. She was sitting up, looking about her with dazed eyes. She put a hand over her eyes, as if to shut out the sight of the tall figure confronting her, uncovered them again, and looked straight into the eyes of the man, who stood with his shoulders against the door, watching her.
He had recognised her when he stooped over her in the street to lift her; she had recognised him sooner. But to her it had seemed that fear had deranged her reason; she believed that her imagination had given to her rescuer the features of some one whom she knew to be dead. Now, while she watched him, listened to his deep breathing, conviction came to her that this was Paul himself, no creation of her fancy; and suddenly, while she looked at him, the room grew dark about her, his face faded in a mist, disappeared: she dropped back on the hides and lay still.
Book Four—Chapter Thirty Four.
As Hallam looked down on the white face, with the eyes closed, and the dark lashes resting on the colourless cheeks, there came back very vividly to his memory a picture of his wife lying senseless at the foot of the stairs, and the horror which had gripped his heart at the sight of her lying thus, the remorse and the self-accusation which had all but unhinged his reason. In recalling these painful memories he felt his heart softening towards her; the jealousy which had embittered his thoughts of her yielded to the more generous instincts of love and a pitiful tenderness, which desired only to shield her from the distress and embarrassment of her position.