Menacingly he advanced toward the dumb-stricken woman, his face ablaze with evil passion.
“Gremnya!” (coward) he shouted. “Weakling at heart. Great boaster, doer of little deeds! Even you, who would be our mistress, he has abandoned--even his own son he has forsaken. A rotten breed, truly! And we die!
“But listen now. This shall not be! I, H'yemba, the smith, the strongest of all, will not permit it. I will be ruler here, if any live to be ruled! And you shall be my serving-maid--your son my slave!”
Aghast, struck dumb by this wild tempest of rebellion, Beatrice recoiled. His face showed like a white blur in the gloom.
“Allan!” she gasped. “My Allan--”
The huge smith laughed a venomous laugh that echoed through the cave.
“Ha! Ye call on the coward?” he mocked, advancing on her. “On the coward who cannot hear, and would not save you if he could? Behold now ye shall kneel to me and call me master! And my words from now ye shall obey!”
She snatched for her pistol. It was not there. In the excitement of the past hours she had forgotten to buckle it on. She was unarmed.
H'yemba already grasped for her, to force her down upon the floor, kneeling to him--to make her call him master.
Already his strong and hairy fingers had all but seized her robe.