“Oh, yes, I’m crazy, but I know what I mean and you do, too. You’ve abandoned God and faith. You’re like her now.”
She was growing more and more excited. It struck him suddenly that she was jealous of Lady Millicent—that strange, battered, weather-beaten old maid; but the idea was too fantastic. He put it away. She might, perhaps, be jealous because the Englishwoman had picked him as the one who was most sane, but it couldn’t be more than that. Before he was able to answer, he saw Lady Millicent herself entering the gate and barring it behind her. She looked in at the door of Swanson’s hut. “He’s pretending to be asleep,” she said. “I know the Arab tricks.”
Then wiping the sweat from her face, she said, “We may have to fight for it. There’s a band of them painted like heathen images coming along the lake.” Again she addressed Philip. “Do you know how to use a gun?”
“Yes.”
“The others,” she asked, indicating Naomi and Swanson, “are they any good?”
“No.”
Naomi came forward. “Philip, I forbid you to kill.” She placed herself suddenly between him and Lady Millicent, but the Englishwoman pushed her aside.
“This is no time for rot!” She gave such a snort that it seemed to him sparks must fly from her nostrils. “I can’t defend all of you ... with two able-bodied, strong men.”
“We’re missionaries,” said Philip. “We didn’t come to kill the poor heathen but to save.”
“Well, I mean to kill as many as possible.”