“What is the thing to do in such a case?” Pierre asked.
“It is not good to stand still.”
“But what if you are stunned, or do not care?”
“You should care. It is not wise to strain a situation.”
Pierre rose, walked up and down the room once or twice, then stood still, his arms folded, and spoke in a low tone. “Once in the Rockies I was lost. I crept into a cave at night. I knew it was the nest of some wild animal; but I was nearly dead with hunger and fatigue. I fell asleep. When I woke—it was towards morning—I saw two yellow stars glaring where the mouth of the cave had been. They were all hate: like nothing you could imagine: passion as it is first made—yes. There was also a rumbling sound. It was terrible, and yet I was not scared. Hate need not disturb you.—I am a quick shot. I killed that mountain lion, and I ate the haunch of deer I dragged from under her....”
He turned now, and, facing the doorway, looked out upon the village, to the roof of a house which they both knew. “Hate,” he said, “is not the most wonderful thing. I saw a woman look once as though she could lose the whole world—and her own soul. She was a good woman. The man was bad—most: he never could be anything else. A look like that breaks the nerve. It is not amusing. In time the man goes to pieces. But before that comes he is apt to do strange things. Eh-so!”
He sat down, and, with his finger, wrote musingly in the dust upon the table.
Liddall looked keenly at him, and replied more brusquely than he felt: “Do you think it fair to stay—fair to her?”
“What if I should take her with me?” Pierre flashed a keen, searching look after the words.
“It would be useless devilry.”