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with a supreme effort of her arms and of her suddenly raised knee, she sent him flying against the partition. The cedar-wood chest stood in the way, and Ricardo, with a thump which boomed hollow through the whole bungalow, fell on it in a sitting posture, half strangled, and exhausted not so much by the efforts as by the emotions of the struggle. With the recoil of her exerted strength, she too reeled, staggered back, and sat on the edge of the bed. Out of breath, but calm and unabashed, she busied herself in readjusting under her arms the brown and yellow figured Celebes sarong, the tuck of which had come undone during the fight. Then, folding her bare arms tightly on her breast, she leaned forward on her crossed legs, determined and without fear. Ricardo, leaning forward too, his nervous force gone, crestfallen like a beast of prey that has missed its spring, met her big grey eyes looking at him—wide open, observing, mysterious—from under the dark arches of her courageous eyebrows. Their faces were not a foot apart. He ceased feeling about his aching throat and dropped the palms of his hands heavily on his knees. He was not looking at her bare shoulders, at her strong arms; he was looking down at the floor. He had lost one of his straw slippers. A chair with a white dress on it had been overturned. These, with splashes of water on the floor out of a brusquely misplaced sponge-bath, were the only traces of the struggle. Ricardo swallowed twice consciously, as if to make sure of his throat, before he spoke again: “All right. Inever meant to hurt you—though I am no joker when it comes to it.” He pulled up the leg of his pyjamas to exhibit the strapped knife. She glanced at it without moving her head, and murmured, with scornful bitterness:
“Ah, yes—with that thing stuck in my side. In no other way.”
He shook his head with a shamefaced smile.
“Listen! I am quiet now. Straight-I am. I don't need to explain why—you know how it is. And I can see, now, this wasn't the way with you."
She made no sound. Her still, upward gaze had a patient mournfulness which troubled him like a suggestion of an inconceivable depth. He added doubtfully:
“You are not going to make a noise about this silly try of mine?"
She moved her head the least bit.
“Jee-miny! You are a wonder,” he murmured earnestly, relieved more than she could have guessed.
Of course, if she had attempted to run out, he would have stuck the knife between her shoulders, to stop her screaming; but all the fat would have been in the fire, the business utterly spoiled, and the rage of the governor-especially when he learned the causeboundless. A woman who does not make a noise after an attempt of that kind has tacitly condoned the offence. Ricardo had no small vanities. But clearly, if she would pass it over like this, then he could not be so utterly repugnant to her. He felt flattered. And she didn't seem afraid of him either. He already felt almost tender towards the girl—that plucky, fine girl who had not tried to run screaming from him.
“We shall be friends yet. I don't give you up. Don't think it. Friends as friends can be!” he whispered confidently. “Jee-miny! You aren't a tame one. Neither am I. You will find that out before long."
He could not know that if she had not run out, it was because that morning, under the stress of growing uneasiness at the presence of the incomprehensible visi
tors, Heyst had confessed to her that it was his revolver he had been looking for in the night; that it was gone; that he was a disarmed, defenceless man. She had hardly comprehended the meaning of his confession. Now she understood better what it meant. The effort of her self-control, her stillness, impressed Ricardo. Suddenly she spoke: “What are you after?” He did not raise his eyes. His hands reposing on his knees, his drooping head, something reflective in his pose, suggested the weariness of a simple soul, the fatigue of a mental rather than physical contest. He answered the direct question by a direct statement, as if he were too tired to dissemble: “After the swag.” The word was strange to her. The veiled ardour of her grey gaze from under the dark eyebrows never left Ricardo’s face. “A swag?” she murmured quietly. “What's that?” “Why, swag, plunder—what your gentleman has been pinching right and left for years—the pieces. Don’t you know? This!” Without looking up, he made the motion of counting money into the palm of his hand. She lowered her eyes slightly to observe this bit of pantomime, but returned them to his face at once. Then, in a mere breath: “How do you know anything about him?” she asked, concealing her puzzled alarm. “What has it got to do with you?” “Everything,” was Ricardo’s concise answer, in a low, emphatic whisper. He reflected that this girl was really his best hope. Out of the unfaded impression of past violence there was growing the sort of sentiment which prevents a man from being indifferent to a woman he has once held in his arms—if even against her will—
and still more so if she has pardoned the outrage. It becomes then a sort of bond. He felt positively the need to confide in her-a subtle trait of masculinity, this, almost physical, need of trust which can exist side by side with the most brutal readiness of suspicion.
“It's a game of grab-see?” he went on, with a new inflection of intimacy in his murmur. He was looking straight at her now. “That fat, tame slug of a ginslinger, Schomberg, put us up to it.'
So strong is the impression of helpless and persecuted misery, that the girl who had fought down a savage assault without faltering could not completely repress a shudder at the mere sound of the abhorred name.
Ricardo became more rapid and confidential:
“He wants to pay him off-pay both of you, at that; so he told me. He was hot after you. He would have given all he had into those hands of yours that have nearly strangled me. But you couldn't, eh? Nohow-what?" He paused. “So, rather than--you followed a gentleman?”
He noticed a slight movement of her head and spoke quickly.
“Same here rather than be a wage-slave. Only these foreigners aren't to be trusted. You're too good for him. A man that will rob his best chum!” She raised her head. He went on, well pleased with his progress, whispering hurriedly: “Yes. I know all about him. So you may guess how he's likely to treat a woman after a bit!”
He did not know that he was striking terror into her breast now. Still the grey eyes remained fixed on him unmovably watchful, as if sleepy, under the white forehead. She was beginning to understand. His words conveyed a definite, dreadful meaning to her mind,
which he proceeded to enlighten further in a convinced murmur.
“You and I are made to understand each other. Born alike, bred alike, I guess. You are not tame. Same here! You have been chucked out into this rotten world of 'yporcrits. Same here!”
Her stillness, her appalled stillness, wore to him an air of fascinated attention. He asked abruptly:
“Where is it?” She made an effort to breathe out: “Where's what?" His tone expressed excited secrecy. “The swag-plunder-pieces. It's a game of grab. We must have it; but it isn't easy, and so you will have to lend a hand. Come! Is it kept in the house?”
As often with women, her wits were sharpened by the very terror of the glimpsed menace. She shook her head negatively.
Sure,” she said. “Ay! Thought so. Does your gentleman trust you?”
Again she shook her head.
“Blamed 'yporcrit,” he said feelingly, and then reflected: “He's one of the tame ones, ain't he?"
“You had better find out for yourself,” she said.
“You trust me. I don't want to die before you and I have made friends.” This was said with a strange air of feline gallantry. Then, tentatively: “But he could be brought to trust you, couldn't he?"
“Trust me?” she said, in a tone which bordered on despair, but which he mistook for derision.
“Stand in with us,” he urged. “Give the chuck to all this blamed 'yporcrisy. Perhaps, without being