"She takes her chance like the rest of us."
"The rest of us—we're men!"
"There are neither men nor women in the Cause. Do you need to be taught that now? Stand back!"
"I'll go down in her place."
"You will do nothing of the kind. Which of us is the leader here?"
Sobrenski had twisted the girl's arms behind her back, and he was holding her by the wrists. He expected her to scream or struggle, but she remained absolutely passive.
One of the men was making a slip-knot in a coil of rope.
Vardri's blood was hot as he looked on. Blind with helpless rage, he was conscious of nothing but the little set face and defiant head. He had come suddenly into his heritage of manhood at the sight of her alone, defenceless and roughly handled by brute beasts who called themselves men.
He was mad, too, with a man's jealousy. From the earliest moment he had seen Arithelli he had given her homage as a woman. The gamin, the "Becky Sharp" that Emile and the others knew, he had never seen, and he had always resented her numerous irreverent nicknames.
He could do nothing, nothing!