So a transfer to Jailpore did not mean to Jane Emmett ten extra degrees
of heat, the neighborhood of jungle-fever and a brand-new breed of
smells. Those disadvantages, which weighted down the souls of her
employers, were completely overshadowed, so far as she was concerned,
by the knowledge that she was traveling nearer by a hundred leagues
or so to where her Bill was stationed. She was going west; and
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.
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