SON OF THE WIND
Her face, as he had seen it last, rose clear in memory, bleak and white, locked lips, deaf ears, implacable eyes; a mind fixed with devouring pity upon itself. Hateful to think of! There was not an eyelash of hers, a glance, or an inch of her finger that he did not hate. Anything to make her turn again and look at him—if not with worship at least with fear. Any way of beating down that wall of stubbornness, even to breaking her with it, if only he could make her see what he meant. Words would never show. He might clamor at her with words for ever. The exploit was the thing that could speak. To appear before her with his adventure achieved, with the spoil in his hands. That would be the unanswerable argument. Everything was justified by accomplishment! He wanted it accomplished now—instantly. It was unendurable he could not turn on them this moment in his triumph. There was all the journey first, and the struggle—an hour, two hours, the afternoon, when a minute was too long for him. He rode headlong to the feet of the Sphinx, scaled her, reckless in his haste, risking his life on her cruel breast; and, descending on the other side, came under shadows of pines, heard the thin voice of the river, and began to run.
Presently the ford came into sight, and in the opening of the trees appeared the outline of a figure.
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