Mrs. Travers stood still for
a moment, then casting far away from her the burning torch ran forward
blindly with her hands extended toward the great sound of Lingard's
voice, leaving behind her the light flaring and spluttering on the
ground. She stumbled and was only saved from a fall by her hands coming
in contact with the rough stakes. The stockade rose high above her
head and she clung to it with widely open arms, pressing her whole body
against the rugged surface of that enormous and unscalable palisade. She
heard through it low voices inside, heavy thuds; and felt at every blow
a slight vibration of the ground under her feet. She glanced fearfully
over her shoulder and saw nothing in the darkness but the expiring glow
of the torch she had thrown away and the sombre shimmer of the lagoon
bordering the opaque darkness of the shore. Her strained eyeballs seemed
to detect mysterious movements in the darkness and she gave way to
irresistible terror, to a shrinking agony of apprehension. Was she to be
transfixed by a broad blade, to the high, immovable wall of wood against
which she was flattening herself desperately, as though she could hope
to penetrate it by the mere force of her fear? She had no idea where
she was, but as a matter of fact she was a little to the left of the
principal gate and almost exactly under one of the loopholes of the
stockade.
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