count was like the wait of the doomed
traitor when he stands facing the firing-squad, watching the glimmer of
light go down the aimed rifles.

For she knew the face of the man who sat there counting; she knew how
the firelight flared in the dark-red of his hair and made it seem like
another fire beneath which the blue of the eyes was strangely cold and
keen. Her hand had gathered to a hard-balled fist.

"Eight--nine--"

She sprang up, screaming: "No, no, Pierre!"

And threw out her arms to him.

"Ten."

She whispered: "It was the girl with yellow hair--Mary Brown."

CHAPTER XXXIV

TIGER-HEART

It was as if she had said: "Good morning!" in the calmest of voices.
There was no answer in him, neither word nor expression, and out of ten
sharp-eyed men, nine would have passed him by without noting the
difference; but the girl knew him as the monk knows his prayers or the
Arab his horse, and a solemn, deep despair came over her. She felt
like the drowning, when the water closes over their heads for the last
time.

He puffed twice again at the cigarette and then flicked the butt into
the fire. When he spoke it was only to say: "Did she stay long?"

But his eyes avoided her. She moved a little so as to read his face,
but when he turned again and answered her stare she winced.

"Not very long, Pierre."

"Ah," he said, "I see! It was because she didn't dream that this was
the place I lived in."

It was the sort of heartless, torturing questioning which was once the
crudest weapon of the inquisition. With all her heart she fought to
raise her voice above the whisper whose very sound accused her, but
could not. She was condemned to that voice as the man bound in
nightmare is condemned to walk slowly, slowly, though the terrible
danger is racing toward him, and the safety which he must reach lies
only a dozen steps, a dozen mortal steps away.

She said in that voice: "No; of course she didn't dream it."

"And you, Jack, had her interests at heart--her best interests, poor
girl, and didn't tell her?"

Her hands went out to him in mute appeal.

"Please, Pierre--don't!"

"Is something troubling you, Jack?"

"You are breaking my heart."

"Why, by no means! Let's sit here calmly and chat about the girl with
the yellow hair. To begin with--she's rather pleasant to look at,
don't you think?"

"I suppose she is."

"H-m! rather poor taste not to be sure of it. Well, let it go. You've
always h