She realized that the hand of nomad,
disorderly barbarism was dragging her with a force which was inhuman, or,
maybe, superhuman.
Gabriel Druse could know nothing of the elements fighting in his
daughter's soul; he only knew that her interest in the Master Gorgio was
one he had never seen before, and that she abhorred the Romany who had
brought Ingolby low. He had shut his eyes to the man's unruliness and his
daughter's intervention to free him; but now he was without pity. He had
come from Ingolby's bedside, and had been told a thing which shook his
rugged nature to its centre--a thing sad as death itself, which he must
tell his daughter.
To Fleda's appeal he turned a stony face. There was none of that rage in
his words which had marked the scene when Jethro Fawe first came to claim
what he could not have. There was something in him now more deadly and
inevitable. It made him like some figure of mythology, implacable,
fateful. His great height, his bushy beard and stormy forehead, the eyes
over which shaggy eyebrows hung like the shrubs on a cliff-edge, his face
lined and set like a thing in bronze--all were signs of a power which, in
passion, would be like that of OEdipus: in the moment of justice or doom
would, with unblinking eyes, slay and cast aside as debris is tossed upon
the dust-heap.
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