I am here to seek him. I shall not leave without news of
him."
"The Englishman is dead!" It was as if a mummy uttered the words. The
speaker neither stirred nor looked at Herne. He seemed to be gazing into
space.
Herne waited for more, but none came.
"I want proof of his death," he said, speaking very deliberately. "I
must know beyond all doubt when and how he died."
"The Englishman was burned with the other captives," the slow,
indifferent voice went on. "He died in the fire!"
"What?" said Herne, with violence. "You devil! I don't believe it! I
thought you did not kill white men!"
"He was not as other white men," came the unmoved reply. "The Wandis
feared his magic. Fire alone can destroy magic. He died slowly but--he
died!"
"You devil!" Herne said again.
His hand was fumbling feverishly at his bandaged shoulder. He scarcely
knew what he was doing. In his impotent fury he sought only for freedom,
not caring how he obtained it. Never in the whole of his life had he
longed so overpoweringly to crush a man's throat between his hands.
But his strength was unequal to the effort. He sank back, gasping,
half-fainting, yet struggling fiercely against his weakness.
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