“No,” he said, and bent again to his work of hauling the little craft clear of the drift-wood that had accumulated about it.
The youth breathed a deep sigh. It was an expression of relief.
“We put that question to this Le Gros soon? Yes?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Sate nodded, and a great light shone in his black eyes. They were fierce with exultation.
“Then we must waste no time. The way is long. There are many miles to Fox Bluff.” He laughed. “Le Gros,” he went on. “It is a French name, and it means—Tcha!” he exclaimed with all the impetuous feeling which drove him like a whirlwind. “We show him what it means.”
The man with the tawny eyes looked up from his work. For one moment he gazed searchingly into the dark face of his son. Then he returned again to his work without a word.
CHAPTER II
THE HOLOCAUST
“Man, I’d sooner they’d put out my eyes, or cut out my tongue. I’d sooner they’d set my body to everlasting torture. Look! Look there! Yes, and there! Oh, God! It’s everywhere the same.” A shaking hand was outthrust. “Dead! Mutilated! Old men! Old women! And poor little bits of life that had only just begun. The barbarity! The monstrousness!”