Slowly Brood's mind worked out of the maze. His shot had gone straight, but Frederic himself had leaped into its path to save this miserable creature who would have damned his soul if life had been spared to him.
Ranjab crawled to his side, his eyes covered with one arm, the other extended. Blindly the master felt for the pistol, not once removing his eyes from the pallid figure against the table. His fingers closed upon the weapon. Then the Hindu looked up, warned by the strange voice that spoke to him from the mind of his master. He saw the arm slowly extend itself with a sinister hand directed straight at the figure of the woman. This time Brood was making sure of his aim, so sure that the lithe Hindu had time to spring to his feet weapon.
“Master! Master!” he cried out.
Brood turned to look at his man in sheer bewilderment. What could all this mean? What was the matter with the fellow?
“Down, Ranjab!” he commanded in a low, cautious tone, as he would have used in speaking to a dog when the game was run to earth.
“There is but one bullet left, sahib!” cried the man.
“Only one is required,” said the master hazily.
“You have killed your son. This bullet is for yourself.”
“Yes! But—but see! She lives! She———”
The Hindu struck his own breast significantly.