was getting very full of sooty smoke from the torch,
in which the unswaying flame burned blood-red without
a flicker. He walked in resolutely, striding
over the dead body, and covered with his revolver
another naked figure outlined vaguely at the other
end. As he was about to pull the trigger, the
man threw away with force a short heavy spear, and
squatted submissively on his hams, his back to the
wall and his clasped hands between his legs.
“You want your life?” Jim said. The
other made no sound. “How many more of you?”
asked Jim again. “Two more, Tuan,”
said the man very softly, looking with big fascinated
eyes into the muzzle of the revolver. Accordingly
two more crawled from under the mats, holding out
ostentatiously their empty hands.’
CHAPTER 32
’Jim took up an advantageous position and shepherded
them out in a bunch through the doorway: all
that time the torch had remained vertical in the grip
of a little hand, without so much as a tremble.
The three men obeyed him, perfectly mute, moving automatically.
He ranged them in a row. “Link arms!”
he ordered. They did so. “The first
who withdraws his arm or turns his head is a dead
man,” he said. “March!” They
stepped out together, rigidly; he followed, and at
the side the girl, in a trailing white gown, her black
hair falling as low as her waist, bore the light.
Erect and swaying, she seemed to glide without touching
the earth; the only sound was the silky swish and
rustle of the long grass. “Stop!”
cried Jim.
’The river-bank was steep; a great freshness
ascended, the light fell on the edge of smooth dark
water frothing without a ripple; right and left the
shapes of the houses ran together below the sharp outlines
of the roofs. “Take my greetings to Sherif
Ali—till I come myself,” said Jim.
Not one head of the three budged. “Jump!”
he thundered. The three splashes made one splash,
a shower flew up, black heads bobbed convulsively,
and disappeared; but a great blowing and spluttering
went on, growing faint, for they were diving industriously
in great fear of a parting shot. Jim turned to
the girl, who had been a silent and attentive observer.
His heart seemed suddenly to grow too big for his
breast and choke him in the hollow of his throat.
This probably made him speechless for so long, and
after returning his gaze she flung the burning torch
with a wide sweep of the arm into the river. The
ruddy fiery glare, taking a long flight through the
night, sank with a vicious hiss, and the calm soft
starlight descended upon them, unchecked.
’He did not tell me what it was he said when
at last he recovered his voice. I don’t
suppose he could be very eloquent. The world was
still, the night breathed on them, one of those nights
that seem created for the sheltering of tenderness,
and there are moments when our souls, as if freed
from their dark envelope, glow with an exquisite sensibility
that makes certain silences more lucid than speeches.
As to the girl, he told me, “She broke down
a bit. Excitement—don’t you know.
Reaction. Deucedly tired she must have been—and
all that kind of thing. And—and—hang
it all—she was fond of me, don’t you
see. . . . I too . . . didn’t know, of
course . . . never entered my head . . .”
