A BLACK SCOUNDREL
though her heart was numb with suffering at this new blow. She who had suffered so much was at last beyond reach of the keenest of misery's pangs, for her senses were numbed and calloused.
With bowed head she sat staring with unseeing eyes upon the face of the baby in her lap. M'ganwazam had left the hut. Sometime later she heard a noise at the entrance—another had entered. One of the women sitting opposite her threw a faggot upon the dying embers of the fire between them.
With a sudden flare it burst into renewed flame, lighting up the hut's interior as though by magic.
The flame disclosed to Jane Clayton's horrified gaze that the baby was quite dead. How long it had been so she could not guess.
A choking lump rose to her throat, her head drooped in silent misery upon the little bundle that she had caught suddenly to her breast.
For a moment the silence of the hut was unbroken. Then the native woman broke into a hideous wail.
A man coughed close before Jane Clayton and spoke her name.
With a start she raised her eyes to look into the sardonic countenance of Nikolas Rokoff.
[ 195 ]
