Then, as if in answer to her shot,
around the edge of the rocks appeared a moving rag of white which grew
into William Drew, bearing above his head the white sign of the truce.
In her astonishment she looked to Bard. He was quivering all over like a
hound held on a tight leash, with the game in sight, hungry to be
slipped upon it. The edge of his tongue passed across his colourless
lips. He was like a man who long has ridden the white-hot desert and is
now about to drink. There was the same wild gleam in his eyes; his hand
shook with nervous eagerness as he shifted and balanced his revolver.
Listening, in her awe, she heard the sound of his increasing panting; a
sound like the breath of a running man approaching her swiftly.
She slipped to his side.
"Anthony!"
He did not answer; his gun steadied; the barrel began to incline down;
his left eye was squinting. She dropped to her knees and seized his
wrist.
"Anthony, what are you going to do?"
"It's Drew!" he whispered, and she did not recognize his voice. "It's
the grey man I've waited for. It's he!"
In such a tone a dying man might speak of his hope of heaven--seeing it
unroll before him in his delirium.
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