The Native Born | Page 2

"No!" she cried sharply. "No! I should still see it. Even when I cover
my face--so--I can still see it flickering. And then there is the darkness,
and in the darkness, faces--little John's face. Oh, my little fellow, what
will become of you!" She began to cry softly, but no longer with fear.
Love and pity had struggled up out of the chaos of her despair, rising
above even the mighty instinct of self-preservation. Margaret's hand
ceased from its mechanical act of consolation.
"Be thankful that he is not here," she said.
"I am thankful--but the thought of him makes death harder. It will hurt
him so."
"No one is indispensable in this world."
Christine turned her haggard, tear-stained face to the moonlight.
"How hard you are!" she said wonderingly. "You, too, have your little
girl to think of, but even with the end so close--even knowing that we
shall never see our loved ones again--you are still hard."
"I have no loved ones, and life has taught me to be hard. Why should
death soften me?" was the cold answer. Both women relapsed into
silence. Always strangers to each other, a common danger had not
served to break down the barrier between them. Christine now lay quiet
and calm, her hands clasped, her lips moving slightly, as though in
prayer. Her companion had resumed her former position against the
wall, her eyes fixed on the open doorway, beyond which the grey lake

of moonlight spread itself into the shadow of the walls. In the distance
a single point of fire flickered uneasily, winking like an evil,
threatening eye. So long as it winked at them, so long their lives were
safe. With its extermination they knew must come their own. Hitherto,
save for the murmur of the two voices, a profound hush had weighed
ominously in the heavy air. Now suddenly a cry went up, pitched on a
high note and descending by semitones, like a dying wind, into a moan.
It was caught up instantly and repeated so close that it seemed to the
two women to have sprung from the very ground beneath their feet.
Christine started up.
"Oh, my God!" she muttered. "Oh, my God!" She was trembling from
head to foot, but the other gave no sign of either fear or interest. There
followed a brief pause, in which the imagination might have conjured
up unseen forces gathering themselves together for a final onslaught. It
came at last, like a cry, suddenly, amidst a wild outburst of yells,
screams, and the intermittent crack of revolvers fired at close quarters.
Pandemonium had been let loose on the other side of the silver lake,
but the silver lake itself remained placid and untroubled. Only the red
eye winked more vigorously, as though its warning had become more
imperative.
Christine Stafford clung to a pair of unresponsive hands, which yielded
with an almost speaking reluctance to her embrace.
"You think there is no hope?" she pleaded. "None? You know what
Harry said. If the regiment got back in time--"
"The regiment will not get back in time," Margaret Caruthers
interrupted. "There are ten men guarding the gate against Heaven
knows how many thousand. Do you expect a miracle? No, no. We are a
people who dance best at the edge of a crater, and if a few, like
ourselves, get swallowed up now and again, it can not be helped. It is
the penalty."
"If only Harry would come!" Christine moaned, heedless of this cold
philosophy. "But he will keep his promise, won't he? He won't let us
fall into those cruel hands? You remember what happened at

Calcutta--"
"Hush! Don't frighten yourself and me!" exclaimed Margaret
impatiently. "Does it comfort you to hold my hand? Well, hold it, then.
How strange you are! I thought you weren't afraid."
"I shan't be when the time comes--but it's so very lonely. Don't you feel
it? Are you made of stone?"
Margaret Caruthers set her teeth hard.
"I would to God I were!" she said. All at once she wrenched her hand
free and pointed with it. Her arm, stretched out into the light, had a
curious, ghostly effect. "Look!" she cried.
The red eye winked rapidly in succession, once, twice, three times, and
then closed--this time for ever. An instant later two dark spots darted
out into the brightly lighted space and came at headlong pace toward
them. Christine sprang to her feet, and the two women clung to each
other, obeying for that one moment the instinct which can bind devil to
saint. But it was an English voice which greeted them from the now
darkened doorway.
"It's all over!" Steven Caruthers said, entering with his companion and
slamming the door sharply to. "We have five minutes more. Mackay
has