“So.”
The man at the table inclined his dark, close-cropped head and turned again to the man on the ground.
“You’re going to tell us of that gold ‘strike,’ Le Gros,” he said simply, without the slightest sign of foreign or native accent. “You’re going to tell us right away. Because if you don’t we’ve a way of making you. Do you get that? You’d better get it. It’ll be easier for you and for those belonging to you. We’ve come many miles to hear about that ‘strike,’ and we aren’t returning empty-handed. Do you fancy handing your story? Or—”
“You’ll get nothing from me.”
Marty Le Gros’ voice had suddenly become harsh and furious. All his ebbing strength was flung into his retort.
The man with the cold eyes shook his head.
“I shall,” he said, with calm decision. “I’m not here to ask twice. You’ve seen the—remains—of your Mission, ’way up the river. Doesn’t that tell you about things? It should—if you have sense.”
The man’s threat was the more deeply sinister for the frigidity of his tone.
The missionary’s eyes lit. For all his growing weakness, for all the suffering the wound in his side was causing him, a tinge of hot colour mounted to his pallid cheeks.
“I tell you you’ll get nothing from me,” he said, and the strength of his voice had ominously lessened. He raised his body till he was supporting himself on one hand which rested in the pool of his own life-blood staining the earthen floor. His dark eyes were fiercely defiant as they gazed up at the other.