Right then Skag made a mistake. He had not taken ten running steps before he knew it, and halted. That which had been like rising gold smoke was a hooded head—lifting just now, dilating. Already he knew, almost fully, what the running had done. The thought of Carlin in the playhouse had over-balanced his own genius. He walked forward now, for the time not hearing Carlin's words from within. . . . The door was open; the windows were screened. The girl was held within by the coiled one on the stone. . . . She was imploring Skag to go back:
". . . to the house!" he heard at last. "Wait there—don't come! It is death to come to me!"
He could not see her.
"Where are you standing, Carlin?"
"Far back—by the sewing machine! . . . Will you not—will you not, for me?"
He spoke very coldly:
"While he watches me from the stone—you come forward slowly and shut the door!"
"That would anger him into flying at you—"
Quite as slowly, his next words:
"I do not think he is angry with me—"