Without
a word he put on his hat and buttoned his coat. His fingers were
unnaturally clumsy and he found the task difficult. Just for a moment
he had a wild idea of asking the other's forgiveness, of attempting an
explanation where none was possible; but he realised it would but make
matters worse, and desisted. The Indian, too, had arisen, and
repressedly courteous, stood ready to open the flap of the tent for the
other to pass. For a moment, the last moment they were ever to see each
other alive, they stood so, each waiting for the other to speak, each
knowing that the other would not speak; then heavily, shufflingly,
Landor took a step forward.
The tent curtain opened before him, was held back while he passed; then
closed again, shutting him out.
For five long dragging minutes after he was gone the other man remained
as he stood, motionless as a bronze statue, as an inanimate thing. The
kerosene lamp was burning low now and sputtered dismally; but he did not
notice, did not hear. For the third time, tremulous against the
background of night and of silence, came the wail of the lonely little
captive. It was a kindred sound, an appealing sound, and at last the
figure responded. Hatless as he was he left the tent, returned a minute
later with something tagging at his heels: a woolly, grey, bright-eyed
something, happy as a puppy at release and companionship. Methodically
the man banked the coal fire and put out the lantern.
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