"We can't, Charlotte. He's too damned heavy."
"If I can, you can."
He didn't move. He stood there, staring with his queer, hypnotised eyes, at the man lying in the middle of the road, at the red pit in the white back, at the wide, ragged lips of the wound, gaping.
"For goodness' sake pick him up. It isn't the moment for resting."
"Look here—it isn't good enough. We can't get him there in time."
"You're—you're not going to leave him!"
"We've got to leave him. We can't let the whole lot be taken just for one man."
"We'll be taken if you stand here talking."
He went on a step or two, slouching; then stood still, waiting for her, ashamed. He was changed from himself, seized and driven by the fear that had possessed the men in the plantation. She could see it in his retreating eyes.
She cried out—her voice sounded sharp and strange—"John—! You can't leave him."