“You lie!” said Imbrie, with a fatuous side-glance at Clare. “She’s beginning to like me now.”
“Beginning to like you!” cried the woman scornfully. “Fool! Watch me! I’ll show you how much she likes you!”
Springing to her feet, and stooping over, she drew the knife from her moccasin. She turned on Stonor. “Redbreast!” she cried in English. “I’m sick of looking at your ugly face. Here’s where I spoil it!”
She raised the knife. Her eyes blazed. Stonor really thought his hour had come. He scrambled to his feet. Clare, with a scream, ran between them, and flung her arms around Stonor’s neck.
“You beast!” she cried over her shoulder to the woman. “A bound man! You’ll have to strike him through me!”
The woman threw back her head and uttered a great, coarse laugh. She coolly returned the knife to her moccasin. “You see how much she likes you,” she said to Imbrie.
Clare, seeing how she had been tricked, unwound her arms from Stonor’s neck, and covered her face. It seemed too cruel that all their pains the livelong day should go for nothing in a moment. Imbrie was scowling at them hatefully.
“Don’t distress yourself,” whispered Stonor. “It couldn’t be helped. We gained a whole day by it anyway. I’ll think of something else for to-morrow.”
“Keep clear of him!” cried Imbrie. “Go to your tent!”
“I won’t!” Clare said.