All
through that fortnight in Berber a hope of escape had sustained him, and
when that lantern shone upon him from behind in the ruined acres, what
had to be done must be done so quickly there was no time for fear or
thought. Here there was time and too much of it.
He had time to anticipate and foresee. He felt his heart sinking till
he was faint, just as in those distant days when he had heard the hounds
scuffling and whining in a covert and he himself had sat shaking upon
his horse. He glanced furtively towards the gallows, and foresaw the
vultures perched upon his shoulders, fluttering about his eyes. But the
man had grown during his years of probation. The fear of physical
suffering was not uppermost in his mind, nor even the fear that he would
walk unmanfully to the high gallows, but a greater dread that if he died
now, here, at Dongola, Ethne would never take back that fourth feather,
and his strong hope of the "afterwards" would never come to its
fulfilment. He was very glad of the collar about his neck and the
fetters on his legs. He summoned his wits together and standing there
alone, without a companion to share his miseries, laughed and scraped
and grimaced at his tormentors.
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