"Lay it on to 'em, David. What's the matter with you? Beat 'em like hell."
The mule drivers used a long-lashed whip which could raise a welt on the thickest hide. David flung the lash afar and brought it down on Ben's back. The horse leaped as if he had been burned, jerking ahead of his mate, and rearing in a madness of unaccustomed pain. With a passionate gesture David threw the whip down.
Susan saw that it was not accidental. She gave a sound of angry astonishment and stood up in the crotch of the tree.
"David!" she screamed, but he did not hear, and then louder: "Daddy John, quick, the whip, he's dropped it."
The old man came running round the back of the wagon, quick and eager as a gnome. He snatched up the whip and let the lash curl outward with a hissing rush. It flashed like the flickering dart of a snake's tongue, struck, and the horses sprang forward. It curled again, hung suspended for the fraction of a moment, then licked along the sweating flanks, and horses and mules, bowed in a supreme effort, wrenched the wagon upward. Susan slid from her perch, feeling a sudden apathy, not only as from a tension snapped, but as the result of a backwash of disillusion. David was no longer the proud conqueror, the driver of man and brute. The tide of pride had ebbed.
Later, when the camp was pitched and she was building the fire, he came to offer her some wood which was scarce on this side of the river. He knelt to help her, and, his face close to hers, she said in a low voice:
"Why did you throw the whip down?"
He reddened consciously and looked quickly at her, a look that was apprehensive as if ready to meet an accusation.
"I saw you do it," she said, expecting a denial.
"Yes, I did it," he answered. "I wasn't going to say I didn't."