Emily was silent. Her gaze darted away from her torturer and around the sea. It came to rest for the smallest part of a second on the western edge of the hill. Determination was born of the thought which the glance suggested. Here was a means of escape.
The cliff was perhaps an hundred feet from where she stood. If she could only get over there a step would carry her into the presence of her God unashamed. Her purpose was formed. There was nothing left for which she cared to live. The camp fire was between her and her goal, but she heeded it not.
Rowgowskii's gaze, following every movement of the glorious figure of womanhood before him, set the fires of his fiendishness flaming in new desire. He advanced a step in front of her. She retreated a step.
"I wonder if you would have treated Lavelle this way if he had come to love you? Eh?"
There was no answer for him, but Emily's lips moved in murmuring what her numbed senses could recall of Lavelle's prayer for grace.
"Would you have treated him this way? Tell me, ma beauté," he leered. He took another step toward her. Again she retreated. Still advancing, the passion of the brute in his eyes scorching her, he said:
"Death will not be so unpleasant. You are very beautiful. You——"
His voice broke in a stammer. A piece of burning sod rolled out of the fire behind his prey.
"Look out!" he cried.
Emily gave no heed. She put one foot on the sod and smoke curled up where it burned through the sole of the canvas sandal which Chang had made for her. Then she lifted the other foot beside it.