Kate Erlton gave a half-choked, half-sobbing cry. Even this seemed a relief from the incredible horror of what had dawned upon her, frightening her by the wild insensate jealousy it roused--the jealousy of motherhood.
"What is it? What does she say?" she cried passionately, "I have a right to know!"
Alice Gissing looked at her with a faint wonder. "It is nothing about that," she said, and her face, though it had whitened, showed no fear. "It's something more important. There has been a row in the city--the Commissioner and some other Englishmen have been killed and she says we are not safe. I don't quite understand. Oh! don't be a fool, Mai!" she went on in Hindustani, "I won't excite myself. I never do. Don't be a fool, I say!" Her foot came down almost savagely and she turned to Kate. "If you will wait here for a second, Mrs. Erlton, I'll go outside with the Mai and have a look round, and bring my husband's pistol from the other room. You had better stay, really. I shall be back in a moment. And I dare say it's all the old Mai's nonsense--she is such a fool about me--nowadays." Her white face; smiling over its own certainty of coming trouble, was gone, and the door closed, almost before Kate could say a word. Not that she had any to say. She was too dazed to think of danger to the little figure, which passed out into the shady back veranda perched on the city wall, looking out into the peaceful country beyond. She was too absorbed in what she had just realized to think of anything else. So this was what he had meant!--and this woman with her facile nature, ready to please and be pleased with anyone--this woman content to take the lowest place--had the highest of all claims upon him. This woman who had no right to motherhood, who did not know----
God in Heaven! What was that through the stillness and the peace? A child's pitiful scream.
She was at the closed windows in an instant, peering through the slits of the jalousies; but there was nothing to be seen save a blare and blaze of sunlight on sun-scorched grass and sun-withered beds of flowers. Nothing!--stay!--Christ help us! What was that? A vision of white, and gold, and blue. White garments and white wings, golden curls and flaming golden crest, fierce gray-blue beak and claws among the fluttering blue ribbons. Sonny! His little feet flying and failing fast among the flower-beds. Sonny! still holding his favorite's chain in the unconscious grip of terror, while half-dragged, half-flying, the wide white wings fluttered over the child's head.
"Deen! Deen! Futteh Mohammed!"
That was from the bird, terrified, yet still gentle.
"Deen! Deen! Futteh Mohammed!"
That was from the old man who followed fast on the child with long lance in rest like a pig-sticker's. An old man in a faded green turban with a spiritual, relentless face.
Kate's fingers were at the bolts of the high French window--her only chance of speedy exit from that closed room. Ah! would they never yield?--and the lance was gaining on those poor little flying feet. Every atom of motherhood in her--fierce, instinctive, animal, fought with those unyielding bolts....