I plucked a
handful of the blossoms, and thought how blue they would look
against the whiteness of her hand; then dropped them in a sudden
shame that in that hour I was so little steadfast to things which
were not of earth. I did not speak to Diccon, nor he to me. There
seemed no need of speech. In the pandemonium to which the
world had narrowed, the one familiar, matter-of-course thing was
that he and I were to die together.
The stakes were in the ground and painted red, the wood properly
arranged. The Indian woman who held the torch that was to light
the pile ran past us, whirling the wood around her head to make it
blaze more fiercely. As she went by she lowered the brand and
slowly dragged it across my wrists. The beating of the drums
suddenly ceased, and the loud voices died away. To Indians no
music is so sweet as the cry of an enemy; if they have wrung it
from a brave man who has striven to endure, so much the better.
They were very still now, because they would not lose so much as
a drawing in of the breath.
Seeing that they were coming for us, Diccon and I rose to await
them. When they were nearly upon us I turned to him and held out
my hand.
He made no motion to take it. Instead he stood with fixed eyes
looking past me and slightly upwards. A sudden pallor had
overspread the bronze of his face.
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