In the quiet, whitewashed soldier's room, Armstrong and Brabazone were collecting what weapons they could find. Mrs. Boucicault had underestimated, but even so there was not much hope to be found in the six double-barrelled guns and the few cases of ammunition.
Mrs. Boucicault stood at the foot of her husband's bed looking at him. They were both so still—the grey-haired, painted woman and the big man lying stretched out beneath the thin sheet—that Armstrong almost forgot them. But at the door he remembered and looked back.
"You'd better explain to your husband—I'll send some one to carry him—he must be where we are——" He hesitated, and then added gruffly: "You don't need to worry, Boucicault. You shan't fall into their hands, I give you my word of honour."
They went out. Still Eleanor Boucicault remained at her place at the foot of the bed. The man's eyes were fixed on her. They were distended. The dim light could not reveal their expression, yet all the life which had made its last stand in their depths seemed to gather together—with a supreme effort—to spread over his face—to swell the withered muscles.
The distant shouting reached them. The sound released her from her still absorption. She threw herself down on her knees beside him.
"They're going to kill us, Richard—they're going to kill us. It's the regiment—your regiment.—Colonel Armstrong says we can't do much. They'll just—just do what they like! Do you hear that shouting? That means they're coming. They know we're here—they know you're here. You made them hate us—just as you made me hate you." She gripped him by the shoulders, her words rushing down on him in a fevered, awful torrent. "It doesn't matter to me—I'm dying, anyhow. You've killed me. That's what I want to tell you. I didn't tell you before, because I thought you'd be glad. But now we're going to die together I want you to understand. Look at this——" She tore open the bosom of her dress.
"You did that—that time you struck me. It never healed—it never will. It's cancer. Oh, but I've had a good time all the same. I've spent your money, Richard. I've made you suffer. I've had you to hurt when I couldn't bear the pain any longer. And now—now you're just going to die like a rabbit in a trap." She burst out laughing. There was a long flat chest against the wall, and she went to it with quick, tottering steps and opened it. The neatly folded uniforms, the sword in its leather case—she flung the whole contents down before him with a shrill cry of bitter triumph. "You'll never wear them again, Richard. You won't go down fighting—I shall, but not you—you'll just lie there and trust to us to have mercy on you. You're just a wreck—a crumbling, hideous ruin. That's why I hate you—why they hate you—those men who are coming to kill us. We loved you so. You were our god—our Bagh Sahib—and then you became—a devil."
She knelt down by the heap of red and gold splendour. She was crying, and the tears carved deep channels through the paint and powder.
"Bagh Sahib!"
She put her hand over her mouth. It was as though she had tried to smother a scream, but no sound had come from her lips. She shrank back from him, farther and farther back till she cowered on the floor, watching him.