It was an oblong hut, built of mud and clay; it had at one end a wide door of stout planking, which so far had not come off the hinges, and in one of the side walls there was a square aperture, a sort of window, with three wooden bars.
Before descending the few steps the girl turned her face over her shoulder and said quickly,
“You were to be set upon while you slept.”
Jim tells me he experienced a sense of deception.
It was the old story.
He was weary of these attempts upon his life.
He had had his fill of these alarms.
He was sick of them.
He assured me he was angry with the girl for deceiving him.
He had followed her under the impression that it was she who wanted his help, and now he had half a mind to turn on his heel and go back in disgust.
“Do you know,” he commented profoundly, “I rather think I was not quite myself for whole weeks on end about that time.”
“Oh yes. You were though,” I couldn’t help contradicting.
‘But she moved on swiftly, and he followed her into the courtyard.
All its fences had fallen in a long time ago; the neighbours’ buffaloes would pace in the morning across the open space, snorting profoundly, without haste; the very jungle was invading it already.
Jim and the girl stopped in the rank grass.
The light in which they stood made a dense blackness all round, and only above their heads there was an opulent glitter of stars.
He told me it was a beautiful night—quite cool, with a little stir of breeze from the river.
It seems he noticed its friendly beauty.
Remember this is a love story I am telling you now.
A lovely night seemed to breathe on them a soft caress.
The flame of the torch streamed now and then with a fluttering noise like a flag, and for a time this was the only sound.
“They are in the storeroom waiting,” whispered the girl; “they are waiting for the signal.”
“Who’s to give it?” he asked.
She shook the torch, which blazed up after a shower of sparks.
“Only you have been sleeping so restlessly,” she continued in a murmur; “I watched your sleep, too.”
“You!” he exclaimed, craning his neck to look about him.
“You think I watched on this night only!” she said, with a sort of despairing indignation.
‘He says it was as if he had received a blow on the chest.
He gasped.
He thought he had been an awful brute somehow, and he felt remorseful, touched, happy, elated.
This, let me remind you again, is a love story; you can see it by the imbecility, not a repulsive imbecility, the exalted imbecility of these proceedings, this station in torchlight, as if they had come there on purpose to have it out for the edification of concealed murderers.
If Sherif Ali’s emissaries had been possessed—as Jim remarked—of a pennyworth of spunk, this was the time to make a rush.
His heart was thumping—not with fear—but he seemed to hear the grass rustle, and he stepped smartly out of the light.
Something dark, imperfectly seen, flitted rapidly out of sight.
He called out in a strong voice,
“Cornelius!
O Cornelius!”
A profound silence succeeded: his voice did not seem to have carried twenty feet.
Again the girl was by his side.
“Fly!” she said.
The old woman was coming up; her broken figure hovered in crippled little jumps on the edge of the light; they heard her mumbling, and a light, moaning sigh.
“Fly!” repeated the girl excitedly. “They are frightened now—this light—the voices. They know you are awake now—they know you are big, strong, fearless . . .”
“If I am all that,” he began; but she interrupted him:
“Yes—to-night!
But what of to-morrow night?
Of the next night?
Of the night after—of all the many, many nights?
Can I be always watching?”
A sobbing catch of her breath affected him beyond the power of words.
‘He told me that he had never felt so small, so powerless—and as to courage, what was the good of it? he thought.