“Cursed be his ancestors,” bayed Man You.
He cast a paper at his daughter’s feet and left the room.
Startled by her father’s unwonted passion, Pan picked up the paper, and
in the clear passionless light of the afternoon read that which forever
after was blotted upon her memory.
“Betrayed! Betrayed! Betrayed to be a betrayer!”
It burnt red hot; agony unrelieved by words, unassuaged by tears.
So till evening fell. Then she stumbled up the dark stairs which led to
the high room open to the stars and tried to think it out. Someone had
hurt her. Who was it? She raised her eyes. There shone: “Its Wavering
Image.” It helped her to lucidity. He had done it. Was it unconsciously
dealt—that cruel blow? Ah, well did he know that the sword which pierced
her through others, would carry with it to her own heart, the pain of
all those others. None knew better than he that she, whom he had called
“a white girl, a white woman,” would rather that her own naked body and
soul had been exposed, than that things, sacred and secret to those who
loved her, should be cruelly unveiled and ruthlessly spread before the
ridiculing and uncomprehending foreigner. And knowing all this so well,
so well, he had carelessly sung her heart away, and with her kiss upon
his lips, had smilingly turned and stabbed her. She, who was of the race
that remembers.