Linda thrust her away with a strength more than her own. "Let me alone!" she cried. "I won't be quiet any longer! I can't stand it!" She ran across the grass, and clung to Jack's arm, facing Mary. Gone were all the pretty affectations and refinements; this was the primitive woman. "He's not hers!" she cried hysterically. "He's mine! He's mine! She's trying to take him from me by making believe to defend him. I can defend him as well as she can. I don't believe he's guilty either. I don't care if he is or not. I love him, and he loves me!"
"He's not hers!" she cried hysterically.
A dreadful silence in the tent succeeded this outburst, broken only by Linda's tempestuous sobs. She hid her face on Jack's shoulder. His arm was around her; a man could do no less. Vassall and Ferrie turned away their heads, shamed and sick at heart to see the lady of their dreams so abase herself. Mrs. Worsley sank back in her chair, and covered her face with her hands.
Mary Cranston, just now all alive, and warm and eager, turned to ice where she stood. Jack was fiery red and scowling like a pirate. For a second his eyes sought Mary's imploringly. Seeing no hope there, he stiffened his back, and drew on the old scornful, stubborn mask, letting them think what they chose. If he had had a moustache he would have twirled it in their faces. Sir Bryson was staring at his daughter clownishly.
Mary broke the silence. "I am sorry," she said, smoothly and clearly, "that the young lady has misunderstood my reasons for mixing myself in this. She need not distress herself any further. Malcolm Piers is nothing to me, nor I to him. If she still thinks I have any share in him, I cheerfully give it to her here and now."
With that she was gone. David Cranston would have been proud of her exit. Not until after she had gone did any of those present realize the wonder of it, that as long as she had remained in the tent this native girl of less than twenty years had dominated them all.
Sir Bryson's faculties were completely scattered. His eyes were almost as blank as Garrod's; his hands trembled; his breathing was stertorous. Whatever his absurdities and weaknesses, at that moment the little man was an object worthy of compassion. Gradually his voice returned to him.
"Linda! How can you shame me so!" he murmured huskily. Then in a stronger voice: "Leave that man!" He turned to Kate Worsley. "Take her away."