She
was cool enough now, every nerve on edge, realising fully the danger of
their position. All the blood of a fighting race surged through her
veins, and she was conscious of no fear, only of a wild exultation, a
strange desire to win. As she turned she faced Cavendish, only vaguely
visible in the twilight caused by the closed window. He was still
seated on the floor, his expression betraying bewilderment.
"Are you hurt?"
"No--not--not much. He knocked all the wind out of me. I--I'm all
right now."
"Get up then! There's fighting enough ahead to make you forget that.
What happened?"
"He--he kicked me, I guess. I--I don't exactly know. I heard you go
past us into that other room, and--and just turned my head to see. The
next I knew I was on the floor, so damned sick--I beg your pardon--I
thought I was going to faint. Did I get him with the knife?"
"No, it's over there, and I am afraid I didn't touch him either; it was
all so sudden I got no aim. Do you hear those voices? There must be a
dozen of the band outside already.
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