somewhere to the west was Bill. Anything was good--fever, and prickly
heat, and smells included--that brought her any nearer him.

There would be no sense in endeavoring to analyze her sensations
when the sudden outburst overwhelmed the inner-guard at Jailpore.
The sight of white women being butchered, and of white men with the
blood of their own women on their hands, selling their lives as dearly
as the God of War would let them in a holocaust of flames, blinded
her. It was probably just a splurge of fire and noise and smoke
and blood in her memory, with one or two details standing out. The
only real sensation that she felt--even when a tall, lean Rajput
flung her across his shoulder, ran with her and dropped her down
through a square hole into stifling darkness--was a longing for Bill
Brown, her Bill, the one man in the world who could surely stop the
butchery.

The others prayed. But she refused to pray. She felt angry--not
prayerful! Had she come nine thousand miles, and sacrificed six good
years of youth and youth's heritage, to be cast into a reeking dungeon
and left to die there in the dark? Not if Bill should know of it!
And so she changed her argument, and prayed for Bill. If only Bill
knew--straight-backed, honest, stiff-chinned, uncompromising, plain
Bill Brown. He would change things!

"Oh, Bill! Bill! Bill!" she sobbed. "Dear God, bring Bill to me!"




VII.