Not only you, but every one of the Fawes here will be
punished if the law reaches for your throat. I want you to escape, and I
tell you to go now. Go back to Europe. I advise you this for your own
sake--because you are a Fawe and of the clan."
The blood mounted to Jethro's forehead, and he made an angry gesture.
"And leave you here for him! 'Mi Duvel!' I can only die once, and I would
rather die near you than far away," he exclaimed.
His eyes had a sardonic look, there was a savage edge to his tongue, yet
his face was flushed with devouring emotion and he was quivering with
hope. That which he called love was flooding the field of his feelings,
and the mad thing--the toxic impulse which is deep in the brain of
Eastern races bled into his brain now. He was reckless, rebellious
against fate, insanely wilful, and what she had said concerning Ingolby
had roused in him the soul of Cain.
She realized it, and she was apprehensive of some desperate act; yet she
had no physical fear of him. Something seemed to tell her that, no matter
what happened, Ingolby would not wait for her in vain, and that he would
yet see her enter to him again with the love-light in her eyes.
"But listen to me," Jethro said, with an unnatural shining in his eyes,
his voice broken in its passion.
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