The cat, sleeping by the wall, lifted its head. A minute later, it got up, arching its back, its fur bristling, its eyes blazing in the darkness. She glanced towards it, aroused by its soft, menacing hiss of anger and fear. Then suddenly the silence around her shivered and broke. She turned and slipped into the second room. There was an old hunting-knife lying among the debris of their hastily prepared picnic. She snatched it up and ran back, placing herself against the wall with the light between her and the door.
The sound that rushed down upon her was a new thing—more terrible than the roar which had beaten persistently against the outer wall of her consciousness. It was like rain and wind and water tearing through a narrow gully. It came on swiftly, gathering speed and violence. It came with a rush down the village street—nearer and nearer—the patter of countless running feet—the gasp and groan of hard-drawn breath, stifled mutterings, the shrill scream of a woman breaking off into a choking gurgle. Nearer—in a headlong torrent—right to the closed door. She drew herself up, her lithe body tense and prepared—and it swept past. It raced on in a ceaseless torrent. She heard the jolt of a heavy body sent reeling against the walls of the hut—and a little whimpering sound that was like a child's crying. Behind the deluge there was a fresh sound—the clatter of horses' hoofs at the gallop.
The door opened and closed. She had taken an involuntary step forward to meet whatever was to come, the knife clenched in her right hand; but, as she saw Tristram, she relaxed with a short, shuddering sigh and her hand sank. He stood leaning with his shoulders against the door, staring at her. His clothes were torn and blood-stained. There was something wild and violent in his face which she had never seen before—the look of a fighter straight from a struggle in which every nerve and sinew has been put to a dire test—in which all the primitive passions of men have risen like wolf-hounds tugging at the leash. The sleeve of his shirt had been ripped to the elbow, and she saw the grand curving line of his shoulder, expressive of an immense, tutored strength.
The hot colour raced through her pallor. She looked back to his face. His eyes had dropped to the knife which she still held—they met hers now and blazed back her fierce and sombre admiration. They remained thus watching each other through a moment of shaken silence. Then he lurched forward, dropping down on the chair by the table, sprawling like a man overtaken by a sudden exhaustion, his bleeding hands clenched before him.
"I am sick—sick of bloodshed!" he muttered.
She laid the knife quietly on the table and stood looking down at his bent head.
"Meredith——" she began.
He threw back his shoulders with a bitter laugh.
"Did you ever know of any one who set out to sacrifice himself and who didn't sacrifice everyone else first? Meredith's safe—but my people—my poor people—they didn't mean any harm—they saved us—you and me. Even though one of our kind had spat in the face of their religion—they didn't forget. You don't know what it meant to them to be so calm and loyal in all that frenzy. Then—then the troops came from Gaya. There was a stampede—no one meant to hurt any one—but they went under—dozens of them—stamped out of recognition—old Seetul and Lalloo's little son, whom I nursed once——" He broke off with a harsh, dry sob. She knelt down beside him. She drew his head down to her shoulder, soothing him like a child.
"Tristram—you mustn't mind so. Things happen like that. We don't mean to harm each other—we don't realize or we can't help ourselves. Some one has to go under. We're always trampling on some one. It can't be helped. The crowd is too great—we have to fight for ourselves first. We were made like that——"