Staring at the tranquil, delicate face of the sleeper by the camp fire,
a great horror of the scarlet hours behind him awoke suddenly in Carl's
heart. There had been a girl who cried. And he had laughed and
shrugged and voiced an ironical philosophy of sex for her consolation.
There was no philosophy of sex, only a hideous injustice which Man, the
Hunter, willfully ignored. There were faces in the fire--faces like
that of Keela, that had lured to sensual conquest and faded.
Trembling violently, Carl stared long and steadily at the Indian girl.
There had been a time, before he sank to the bottom of the pit, when
her face had awakened in him an eager deference. The moon darkened. A
white wall of mist settled thickly over the Glades. Then came other
thoughts. Philip trusted him. He must not forget. And the immortal
spark of control lay somewhere within him. Unbridled passion of mind
and body had made him very ill. Very well, then, it behooved him to
exorcise the demon while this tormenting clarity of vision whirled the
dread kaleidoscope of his careless life before him in honest colors.
Unleashed by drug and drink and ceaseless brooding, nerve centers had
rebelled, an infernal blood pressure born of mental agony had inspired
the droning, his will had slipped its moorings.
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