It struck the policeman behind
the ear, causing him to feel sick and dizzy. He felt the
hot blood trickling down his neck, and he heard one or
two of the pack laughing.
"He will be plenty dead soon," said one. "What does it
matter?"
But the big breed, with a touch of that humanity which
beats down prejudice and makes us all akin, turned upon
the now unpleasantly demonstrative rabble, and swore at
them roundly. In another moment Pasmore was himself again,
and he could see that gallows-like tree right in front
of him... And what was that hulking brute alongside
saying about skulking shermoganish? Was he going to his
death hearing the uniform he wore insulted by cowardly
brutes without making a resistance of some sort? He knew
he would be shot down instantly if he did, and they would
be glad of an excuse, but that would be only cutting
short the agony. The veins swelled on his forehead, and
he felt his limbs stiffen. He made a sudden movement,
but the big breed caught his arm and whispered in his
ear. It was an Indian saying which meant that until the
Great Spirit Himself called, it was folly to listen to
those who tempted. It was not so much the hope these few
words carried with them, as the spirit in which they were
uttered, that stayed Pasmore's precipitate action. He
knew that no help would come from the invested Fort, but
God at times brought about many wonderful things.
As they led him up the rough, conical mound he breathed
a prayer for Divine aid.
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