She had refused my kiss.
I saw the planet again, tipping another tree-top. I understood its
remoteness; in my agony I was part of it. What were men, countries,
empires! I felt the insignificance of life, of suffering. What did it
matter if these Indians died! Why should we not all die? I crawled to
my knees. I would give the signal to retreat. I would give it now.
Let the massacre come.
But I fell back. I could not. I could not. Three hundred lives for
one life. I could spill my own blood for her, but not theirs.
But as for empire, I had forgotten its meaning.
All of these men lying in the shadows had women who were dear. Many of
the wives would kill themselves if their husbands died. I had seen an
Indian wife do it; she had smiled while she was dying.
Would the woman think of me--at the last? She would not know that I
had failed her. She would not know that I was worse than Starling.
She was the highest-couraged, the most finely wrought woman that the
world knew. Yet two men had failed her.
"Monsieur," she had said, "life has not been so pleasant that I should
wish to live."
It was only a week ago that she--she, alive, untouched, my own--had
walked away from me in the sunshine, leaning on Cadillac's arm.
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