blow—but no, before that he had better check on the woman. The knots were tight enough on her legs; there was not even room to insert a finger. Her wrists were already swollen a dark red, and her spatulate fingernails had turned the color of an old ink smear.
The gag too was perfect. She had drawn her dull-colored lips so taut there was almost no blood in them, and she appeared almost ghostly. Saliva dribbled out of her mouth and made a dark stain on the matting under her cheek. With the wavering of the lamp he seemed to hear her voiceless screams.
“It’s no use. You started the whole thing yourself anyway,” he said quickly without thinking. “We’ve tried to get the best of each other, and we’re about even, aren’t we? I’m human too, and you can’t simply tie me up like a dog. Anybody would call it legitimate self-defense on my part.”
Suddenly the woman twisted her neck and tried to catch sight of him out of the corner of her half-closed eyes.
“What’s wrong? Do you want to say something?”
She moved her neck awkwardly. It was as if she were nodding assent, or even dissent. He drew the lamp closer and tried to read her eyes. He could not immediately believe what he saw. They were filled with infinite sorrow, in which there was neither bitterness nor hatred, and she seemed to be appealing for something.
Impossible. It must be his own imagination. “Expression in the eyes” is really only a figure of speech. How can expression exist in an eyeball that has no muscle? Even so, he winced and stretched out his hands to loosen the gag.
He drew them back and hastily blew out the lamp. The voices of the basket carriers were drawing close. He placed the darkened lamp on the edge of the ramp around the raised portion of the floor so that he could find it easily and, putting his lips to the kettle under the sink, took a drink of water. With the shovel clutched in his hands, he concealed himself by the door. He began to perspire. It would be soon now. He would have to be patient for five or ten minutes more. With one hand he drew his collecting box close to him.
16
“HEY, there!” A hoarse voice rang out.
“What are you doing down there?” Another voice, vibrant and still young, echoed the first.
The man was enclosed in the palpable darkness of the hole. But outside, the moon had evidently risen, and the shadows of men on the line between the sand and the sky were an indistinct, expanding blob.
He edged closer, hugging the bottom of the hole, his shovel in his right hand.
A coarse laugh sounded at the top of the cliff. A rope, with a hook for the kerosene cans, was being lowered hand over hand.
“Come on, lady. Get a move on!”
At that very instant the man sprang toward the rope, kicking up the sand as he ran.
“Hey, there! Pull ‘er up!” He shouted as loud as he could, clinging to the taut rope with a grip that would have sunk his fingers into stone. “Pull ‘er up! Pull ‘er up! I won’t let go until you do! I’ve tied the woman up in the house. If you want to help her, hoist the rope right away. I won’t let you get to the woman until you do! And if you happen to come down here I’ll split your brains open with this shovel. Just take me to court and see who’ll win. Do you really expect me to make allowances for you? What are you fussing around for? If you haul me right up I’ll withdraw my complaint and overlook the whole thing. Illegal detention is no light crime. What’s the matter? Get a move on and pull me up!”
The sand that poured down struck his face. A cold, clammy feeling was rapidly spreading from his collar into his shirt. His hot breath burned his lips.
Above, it seemed they had begun some sort of discussion. Suddenly there was a strong pull, and they began to haul the rope up. His inert weight, heavier than he had expected, ripped the rope through his fingers. He clung on with redoubled strength. A violent spasm like laughter convulsed his stomach. It was as if
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