And Archie, while she could see each of his virtues—pluck, loyalty, gentleness—written in letters of fire, she knew that never again could he quicken her pulses.
Hot scorn of herself and her lover filled her veins, but she did not voice it. All her wit was devoted to the task of keeping the men from each other's throats. She scrutinised every word before she spoke it, that nothing she said might send the precarious triangle, at whose apex she stood, heeling to disaster.
So while her realisation of Dick's unworth penetrated her brain as lead is melted and poured into a mould, she was guiding the conversation to soothe his ruffled vanity: and not until she felt her end attained did she leave him on the excuse that she must see about the fishing.
On her way to the beach she was met by a note from Archie asking her to send six men to carry in a hartebeeste he had shot. With a sigh of relief she dismissed one anxiety. There was food now for all for a day or two.
It was dusk before the procession returned in pairs, the dismembered limbs of the buck swinging from freshly-cut poles that rested on their bowed shoulders. Anxious to regain the firelight before dark, their knees were bent and their hips swung in a gliding trot. One arm supported the pole, the other held a spear or axe. Behind them walked Archie with his gun over his shoulder. He gave orders for the meat to be spread on the ground beside the fire and bade the tense, black circle stand farther back.
'In this heat the stuff will be rotten by to-morrow night,' he remarked. 'They won't mind, though.'
He told Changalilo to take the saddle for the European table, and watched while Matao with an axe divided the rest between the natives. They knelt and clapped their hands in salutation before they withdrew, clasping each man his sanguinary portion. Soon a ring of bright little fires half-burnt, half-smoked the spitted meat, and the night was full of soft voices and high-pitched laughter.
Archie subsided into a deck-chair and sat silent, his head in his hands. Nervous of his thoughts, Norah inquired about the kill.
He had had to cover a lot of ground, he answered, uttering his words carefully. No, there wasn't a herd; a solitary ram, turned out probably for his bad temper; grazing behind an anthill. He was hoping she would not hear his teeth clattering against each other. Pains that started from the base of his skull and shot across his head assured him that an attack of malaria threatened.
With an effort he answered Norah, who, anxious to cover Dick's silence, had asked another question.