For a woman
burdened with the disability of a high-strung nervous system, it is a
martyrdom. Yet these women, brought up on the froth of an enervating,
pleasure-seeking society, held out--held out with a martyr's courage
and constancy--against the torture of inactivity, of an imagination
which penetrated the sheltering walls out into the night where fifty
men writhed in a death-struggle with hundreds--saw every bleeding
wound, heard every smothered moan of pain, felt already the cold iron
pierce their own breasts. The hours passed, and they did not yield.
They had ceased from their incongruous tasks, and stood and waited,
wordless and tearless.
As the first grey lights of dawn crept into the stifling room they
heard footsteps hurrying across the adjacent room, and each drew
herself upright to meet the end. Mrs. Carmichael's hand tightened over
the revolver, but it was only Mr. Berry who entered. The little
missionary, a shy, society-shunning man, noted for doing more harm
than good among the natives by his zealous bigotry and ignorance of
their prejudices, stood revealed in a new light. His face was grimed
with dirt and powder, his clothes disordered, his weak eyes bright
with the fire of battle.
"Do not be afraid," he said quickly. "There is no immediate danger. I
have only been sent to warn you to be ready to leave the bungalow. The
front wall is shot-riddled, and the place may become indefensible at
any moment.
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