Adventure, December 1914 — page 73: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Lancing of the Whale snatched it from him, spat at him, called him poltroon, and then—bewitching, hate- propelled, amazing—charged into the mid- dle of the tide of men and lashed at them left and right. Her chestnut hair was down, and her helmet off; her eyes blazed like living fires and her parted lips emitted hisses that were thoughts too savage to take shape. She might have been Medusa; and there came a man—the officer supposed to be commanding—who felt his heart turn to stone—cold, crumbling chalk—at sight of her. “Hal? she screamed at him. comes the fellow who knew better!” A little fat, a little gray above and behind the ears, he tramped in tight riding-boots behind his men, purple-faced and hoarse from efforts to control the uncontrollable. Her order had been not to attack Dick Anthony; he had over-ridden it. She—for her own ends as well as Russia’s—had de- sired Dick hunted, but not caught or killed; he—blaming her for previous disaster—had decided to attack, and to keep to himself the credit for Dick’s capture or his death. He had defied her secret power—had snapped his fingers at her telegrams from Peters- burg that gave her all authority beyond the Atrak River; and now he grew paler as he faced his Nemesis. “Here comes the man who planned this -business!”” she jeered. ‘‘Cossacks! Seize him! Makehim prisoner! Arrest the gray- haired imbecile! He led you into this shambles in the teeth of orders! Seize him!’’ None listened to her, though the men who ran took care to avoid her flicking whip-lash. None took any notice of the Colonel, recovering his breath and fingering the automatic pistol at his belt. He stood figuring his chances—his word against her word, his record against her secret influence, his honest purpose against her sheer wick- edness. “Arrest him!” she screamed. him court-martialed! this in full!” But they were in no mood to listen to a woman; strong men had failed to check their course. She was young; she looked young, even in her fury; age had not won respect from them that day. They hurried past her, and the Colonel waited, still fingering the pistol. She rode toward him, and her knout cracked as she came. He drew the pistol, just as two lieutenants “‘Here “Twill have He shall pay for 7a stopped running, caught sight of the im- pending duel, and hurried to intercede. She saw them. Wild-eyed, with an oath that would have made a common soldier wince, she flogged her horse and rode at him; but as she came he turned the pistol muzzle upward, pressed it underneath his chin, and fired. Balked of her first intent, and so wilder yet, she flogged his dead body, cutting weals across the livid face. She snatched at her horse to try and make him trample on the corpse; but, true to instinct, each time the brute came to it he jumped or swerved aside, and she wrenched his jaw savagely, swinging him back to try again, flogging like a mad she-devil. She lashed at the corpse and her horse until the two lieuten- ants were nearly close enough to interfere; then she rode off with a laugh after the routed Cossacks, and began the savagest lone-handed fight one woman ever entered on. She turned them, though it took two hours. She brought them to a halt at last —rallied them—faced them about —and led them back; and how she did it, only she knew. ‘There were men behind her when she came, whose faces streamed blood where her whip-lash had descended; there was an officer whose blood ran in his eyes. They followed her like beaten dogs, tramping in fours as if in leash, too dazed and fright- ened to remember anything, or to do anything but obey her dumbly and march numbly at her bidding, back to Astrabad. For the second time within a week shamed Russian soldiers were to enter through the city-gate and march under the eye of the inhabitants. Her French maid—the little maid who had succumbed to Andry’s Gargantuan charms—rode behind the men, too fright- ened to let her mistress see her if it could be helped, yet much too scared to ride away. She was sobbing—sobbing for her grim, tremendous Andry, who would have put a great iron arm around her and would have told her not to ‘‘fash hersel’.”’” She would have ridden into Hell smiling behind Andry; but to ride into Astrabad again behind the Princess was another matter, and she rode in tears. They were challenged—brought to a halt outside the gate. None but Olga Karageor- govich could have gained admission without fighting, for the barracks were all burning Gomiicivook (C©