ugh a bit of blue sky had fallen into the glade,
there appeared between Lilla and the crawling warrior, a figure of
trailing blue robes, bent double, running. It was Hamoud, his turban
gone, his cheek smeared with loam, one shoulder of his robe stained a
deep violet.

Clapping his sandaled foot upon the spear blade, he seized the Mambava
by his plume of egrets. The painted head was dragged back. The
Zanzibar dagger shone through the ribbons of smoke.

Her mouth twisted in abnormal shapes as she struggled to cry out.
"Hamoud!" she screamed at last, raising her arms as high as she could,
and trying to tear her gaze away from that spectacle. The Arab's pose,
as he bent over his enemy, was a frightful burlesque of solicitude.
How many times had she not seen him bending thus over David, maybe to
smooth his pillow? And now, against the colonnade of gloomy trees,
there was something sacrificial in that tableau--the blue robe, the wet
dagger, the plumed head pulled back, with glazed eyes fixed on the
woman who stood rigid, her arms upstretched, transformed from the giver
of life into the giver of death.

She fled, stumbled, stood still in the entrance to the back-trail. In
that leafy tunnel, as far as the eye could see, was no one living or
dead. The porters, the tent boys, all were gone in a stampede for
safety. The baggage lay scattered among the fern beds. She saw
bundles of green canvas, chop boxes, rags, bursting sacks of grain.
Beside a mossy rock lay her dressing case smashed open, its mirror,
brushes, and vials trampled into the mud.

"Ah, my mirror is broken."

She wandered through the wreckage, uttering peals of laughter.

CHAPTER LXIII

The light of the full moon, penetrating the high canopy of leaves,
illuminated the contorted vines that hung motionless in mid-air like
pythons of silver. Here, miles beyond the place of battle, apart from
the trail, in a covert that seemed made for them, the woman and the man
sat resting, she on a mound of moss as soft as a pile of velvet
cushions, he at her feet. A moonbeam rested on her loosened hair and
her dress that was torn to tatters. She raised her head as the sound
of the drums came to her from far away.

To-night there was a new accent in that throbbing, a wilder cadence, a
suggestion of tumult, a hint of the infernal. In her fancy she
perceived a multitude of naked, painted figures dancing in the glamor
of great fires.

A shudder passed throu