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Buchan, John, 1875-1940

"The Half-Hearted"


The place could not be two miles off, and between it and him there was
the smooth benty plateau. He might make a rush for it and cross
unobserved. Even now the early sun was beginning to strike it. The
yellow-grey walls stood out clear against the far line of mountains, and
the wisp of colour which fluttered in the wind was clearly the British
flag. The exceeding glory of the morning gave him a new vigour. Why
should not he run with any tribesman of the lot? If he could but avoid
the risk of a rifle bullet at the outset, he would have no fear of the
issue.
He glanced behind him. The place seemed still, though far down there
was a tinkle as of little stones falling. He stood up, straightened
himself for one moment till he had filled his lungs with the clean air.
Then he started to run quickly towards the fort.
The full orb of the sun topped the mountains and the dazzle was in his
eyes from the first. If he covered the first half-mile unpursued he
would be safe; otherwise he might expect a bullet. It was a comic
feeling-the wide green heath, the fresh air, the easy vigour in his
stride, the flush of the morning sun, and that awkward, nervous weakness
in the small of his back where a bullet might be expected to find a
lodgment.
He never looked back till he had gone what seemed to him the proper
distance, and then he glanced hurriedly over his shoulder.


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