|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmejt
 

ground under her feet. She glanced
fearfully over her shoulder and saw nothing in the darkness but
the expiring glow of the torch she had thrown away and the sombre
shimmer of the lagoon bordering the opaque darkness of the shore.
Her strained eyeballs seemed to detect mysterious movements in
the darkness and she gave way to irresistible terror, to a
shrinking agony of apprehension. Was she to be transfixed by a
broad blade, to the high, immovable wall of wood against which
she was flattening herself desperately, as though she could hope
to penetrate it by the mere force of her fear? She had no idea
where she was, but as a matter of fact she was a little to the
left of the principal gate and almost exactly under one of the
loopholes of the stockade. Her excessive anguish passed into
insensibility. She ceased to hear, to see, and even to feel the
contact of the surface to which she clung. Lingard's voice
somewhere from the sky above her head was directing her,
distinct, very close, full of concern.
"You must stoop low. Lower yet."
The stagnant blood of her body began to pulsate languidly. She
stooped low--lower yet--so low that she had to sink on her knees,
and then became aware of a faint smell of wood smoke mingled with
the confused murmur of agitateyilai：
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On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmcch