The
sun mounting higher, shortened the shadows and poured down upon her a
flood of light and of stifling heat as she passed on from shadow to
light, from light to shadow, amongst the houses, the bushes, the tall
trees, in her unconscious flight from the pain in her own heart. In the
extremity of her distress she could find no words to pray for relief, she
knew of no heaven to send her prayer to, and she wandered on with tired
feet in the dumb surprise and terror at the injustice of the suffering
inflicted upon her without cause and without redress.
The short talk with Reshid, the proposal of Abdulla steadied her a little
and turned her thoughts into another channel. Dain was in some danger.
He was hiding from white men. So much she had overheard last night. They
all thought him dead. She knew he was alive, and she knew of his hiding-
place. What did the Arabs want to know about the white men? The white
men want with Dain? Did they wish to kill him? She could tell them
all--no, she would say nothing, and in the night she would go to him and
sell him his life for a word, for a smile, for a gesture even, and be his
slave in far-off countries, away from Nina. But there were dangers. The
one-eyed Babalatchi who knew everything; the white man's wife--she was a
witch.
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