“A Sirani woman!” she said, slowly, in a tone of wonder.
Joanna rushed at Willems—clung to him, shrieking: “Defend me, Peter! Defend me from that woman!”
“Be quiet. There is no danger,” muttered Willems, thickly.
Aissa looked at them with scorn. “God is great! I sit in the dust at your feet,” she exclaimed jeeringly, joining her hands above her head in a gesture of mock humility. “Before you I am as nothing.” She turned to Willems fiercely, opening her arms wide. “What have you made of me?” she cried, “you lying child of an accursed mother! What have you made of me? The slave of a slave. Don’t speak! Your words are worse than the poison of snakes. A Sirani woman. A woman of a people despised by all.”
She pointed her finger at Joanna, stepped back, and began to laugh.
“Make her stop, Peter!” screamed Joanna. “That heathen woman. Heathen! Heathen! Beat her, Peter.”
Willems caught sight of the revolver which Aissa had laid on the seat near the child. He spoke in Dutch to his wife, without moving his head.
“Snatch the boy—and my revolver there. See. Run to the boat. I will keep her back. Now’s the time.”
Aissa came nearer. She stared at Joanna, while between the short gusts of broken laughter she raved, fumbling distractedly at the buckle of her belt.
“To her! To her—the mother of him who will speak of your wisdom, of your courage. All to her. I have nothing. Nothing. Take, take.”