It was a strange scene. From the wall the picture of the idol seemed to grin hideously. Speechless with terror, poor Flora stood wringing her hands. The two women, panting with the first shock of attack, glared at each other, and over all there fell the weird, flickering light of the swinging cocoa-lamp.
As in all Indian buildings of this kind, there was a long window in the room opening on to a verandah. The jalousies were thrown back. The stars in the heavens were shining, and from below came up the sounds of the voices of the natives, who were beating their tom-toms and making merry.
Miss Meredith moved to this verandah. She peered over. She could see groups of people below. Her first impulse was to call for assistance, but in an instant she was convinced of the madness of such a proceeding. On the issue of the struggle her life depended. She might go free if Zeemit conquered—die if the triumph was Wanna’s.
“Give me the key of that door,” demanded Zeemit, when she had recovered breath enough for speech.
“Never while my heart beats,” answered the other.
“Then I will take it from you when your heart has done beating,” said Zeemit.
Mehal was slightly the taller of the two women, and her arms were longer. In this respect she, perhaps, had an advantage.
The women struggled furiously. Now they were locked in a deadly embrace, now parted, only to spring together again with increased ferocity. Never did wild animals grip and tear, and hiss, and struggle more savagely than did these two women. But the springs which moved them both to action were of a totally different nature. A kindly desire to render assistance to one in distress was Mehal’s motive—a deadly hatred for the Englishwoman was the other’s.
They dragged each other round the room; they panted with the extraordinary exertion which each made to gain the victory; their muslin garments were encrimsoned with blood and rent to shreds. Now they dashed against the stone walls, then reeled and tottered to the floor, writhing in the agony of the terrible grip which each had of the other. Rising again, covered with dust and blood, and their limbs locked together like snakes—their faces contorted with pain and passion, and their breath coming thick and fast.
It was an awful moment for Flora. She would have rendered assistance to Mehal, but that was impracticable, as she found, for Wanna twisted herself about so rapidly as to frustrate the attempts which Flora made to grasp her.