And so I pushed my way about. But wherever I went, or whatever else my
eyes were doing, I kept watch upon the woman. She stood quiet with
Singing Arrow and waited for what might come. Her fate was hanging
with Starling's at the council ring, and I knew that I must keep away
from her. That was not easy. Each time that I let my glance rest upon
the foulness of the camp I felt that I must go to her and blind her
eyes. But I never made more than one step. I had only to look at her
to understand that her spirit had learned in these months to hold
itself above the body. What was passing did not touch her; she lived
in the fortress of her splendidly garrisoned pride. Singing Arrow
stood equally aloof, intrenched in her stoicism, but I think the root
motives of the two were different, though the outside index was the
same. Indeed, we all had different wellsprings for our composure.
Pierre's stolidity was largely training. Starling's quiet might mean
instinctive imitation, but I feared it was something more sinister.
While mine---- But I had no composure. I swaggered and shrugged and
played harlequin and boaster.
We were soon to learn that Starling's quiet was not impervious. I saw
him start.
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