The colonel and Umballa swayed back and forth. Umballa sank to his

knees and then fought madly to rise but the hands at his throat were

the hands of a madman, steel, resistless. The colonel's chains clinked

sharply. Lower and lower went Umballa's head; he saw death peering

into the cell. His cry rattled in his throat.

Not a sound from Kathlyn. She watched the battle, unfeeling as marble.

Let the wretch die; let him feel the fear of death; let him suffer as

he had made others suffer. What new complications might follow

Umballa's death did not alarm her. How could she be any worse off than

she was? He had polluted her cheeks with his kisses. He had tortured

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and shamed her as few white women have been. Mercy? He had said that

day that he knew not the word.

"Ah, you dog! Haven't I prayed God for days for this chance? You

black caha! Die!"

But Umballa was not to die at that moment or in that fashion.

That nervous energy which had infused the colonel with the strength of

a lion went out like a spark, and as quickly. Umballa rolled from his

paralyzed fingers and lay on the floor, gasping and sobbing. Hare fell

back against the pillar, groaning. The cessation of dynamic nerve

force filled him with racking pains and a pitiable weakness. But for

the pillar he would have hung by his chains.

Kathlyn, with continued apathy, stared down at her enemy. He was not

dead. He would kill them both now. Why, she asked with sudden

passion, why this misery? What had she done in her young life to merit

it? Under-fed, dressed in grass, harassed by men and wild beasts--why?

Umballa edged out of danger and sat up, feeling tenderly of his throat.

Next he picked up his turban and crawled to the open door. He pulled

himself up and stood there, weakly. But there was venom enough in his

eyes. The tableau lasted a minute or two; then slowly he closed the

door, bolted it, and departed.

This ominous silence awoke the old terror in Kathlyn's heart far more

than oral threats would have done. There would be reprisal, something

finished in cruelty.

"My dear, my dear!" She ran over to her father and flung her arms

about him, supporting him and mothering him. An hour passed.

"All in, Kit, all in; haven't the strength of a cat. Ah, great God; if

that strength had but lasted a moment longer. Well, he's still alive.

But, O, my Kit, my golden Kit, to see you here is to be tortured like

the damned. And it is all my fault, all mine!" The man who had once

been so strong sobbed hysterically.

"Hush, hush!"

"There were rare and wonderful jewels of which I alone knew the hiding

place. But God knows that it was not greed; I wanted them for you and

Winnie . . . I knew you were here. Trust that black devil to announce

the fact to me . . . God! what I haven't suffered in the way of

suspense! Kit, Kit, what has he done to you?"




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