The thought that the beggar had
started to prance darted through his mind. For a fraction of a second
his distracted eyes sought for his weapon an over the floor. He couldn't
see it.
"Stick him, you!" he called hoarsely to the girl, and dashed headlong
for the door of the compound.
While he thus obeyed the instinct of self-preservation, his reason was
telling him that he could not possibly reach it alive. It flew open,
however, with a crash, before his launched weight, and instantly he
swung it to behind him. There, his shoulder leaning against it, his
hands clinging to the handle, dazed and alone in the night full of
shudders and muttered menaces, he tried to pull himself together. He
asked himself if he had been shot at more than once. His shoulder was
wet with the blood trickling from his head. Feeling above his ear, he
ascertained that it was only a graze, but the shock of the surprise had
unmanned him for the moment.
What the deuce was the governor about to let the beggar break loose like
this? Or--was the governor dead, perhaps?
The silence within the room awed him. Of going back there could be no
question.
"But she know show to take care of her self," he muttered.
She had his knife. It was she now who was deadly, while he was disarmed,
no good for the moment. He stole away from the door, staggering, the
warm trickle running down his neck, to find out what had become of the
governor and to provide himself with a firearm from the armoury in the
trunks.
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