She knew, as many an
English girl has known, that she was alone, one white woman amid a
swarm of sullen Aryans, and that she must follow along the road the
guns had taken, served and protected by nothing more than low-caste
natives.
And yet she was dry-eyed, and her chin was high; for they are a strange
breed, these Anglo-Saxon women who follow the men they love to the
lonely danger-zone. Ruth Bellairs could have felt no joy in her
position; she had heard her husband growling his complaint at being
forced to leave her, and she guessed what her danger was. Fear must
have shrunk her heartbeats and loneliness have tried her courage.
But there was an ayah in the room with her, a low-caste woman of
the conquered race; and pride of country came to her assistance.
She was firm-lipped and, to outward seeming, brave as she was beautiful.
Even when the door resounded twice to the sharp blow of a saber-hilt,
and the ayah's pock-marked ebony took on a shade of gray, she stood
like a queen with an army at her back and neither blanched nor trembled.
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