He wanted her, he owned her, she was
his. Sick and unable to fight for her she had been stolen from him,
and he writhed in spasms of self pity at the thought of the cruelty of
it. How could he, disabled, broken by unaccustomed hardships, cope
with the iron-fibered man whose body and spirit were at one with these
harsh settings? _He_ was unfitted for it, for the heroic struggle, for
the battle man to man for a woman as men had fought in the world's dawn
into which they had retraced their steps. He could not make himself
over, become another being to appeal to a sense in her he had never
touched. He could only plead with her, beg mercy of her, and he saw
that these were not the means that won women grown half savage in
correspondence with a savage environment.
Then came moments of exhaustion when he could not believe it. Closing
his eyes he called up the placid life that was to have been his and
Susan's, and could not think but that it still must be. Like a child
he clung to his hope, to the belief that something would intervene and
give her back to him; not he, he was unable to, but something that
stood for justice and mercy.
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