“Where’s your knife? Your clasp-knife? You had it, I know! Give it here, then, if you’ve not got the mercy to help me out yourself. Give it here!”
“Lou—I—I couldn’t! Oh—God———”
Lou tried to raise himself; fell back with oaths in his mouth, and twisted his hand in Steve’s trousers.
“You’ll burn too if you won’t give it up. Steve—you devil!”
Steve dragged his belt round and jerked the knife out. He thrust it into the eager hand as a blast of flame struck his face, blinding him, scorching hair from eyebrows and eyelids, and sending him, stupid and staggering, down the track before the fire.
He found sense only by the post and rail fence that led by way of a creek to Mains. Behind the fire raged and tossed great arms, crossing the hill to North-of-Sunday. Before lay the peace of the night, and Mains homestead in the hollow. He stumbled down to the whares that were full of light and noise. In the door someone stopped him, exclaiming. Steve looked down at his boots, yet dazed. A spurt of half-dried blood crossed them both.
“Lou were quick,” he said. “D——— quick!”
Then he staggered to the long table, laid his head on it and cried helplessly.
An hour later he was back in the township with Murray, knocking on the side door of the
