There came to O'Higgins the discouraging knowledge that upon the heels of a wonderful chase—blindman's buff in the dark—would come a stretch of dull inaction. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. His smile faded. Brendon felt his arm seized. You cannot care for her. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. " "It shall be, Sir," replied Ireton, bowing.
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