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With harsh cries and a wild spatter of bullets aimed high above them, Allan drove the cowed and beaten partizans of H'yemba jostling, fleeing, howling for mercy, down the terrace-path between the cliff and parapet. Only then, when he knew victory was secure and his own dominance once more sealed on them, did he run swiftly back to his boy.
Neglecting for an instant the bruised and screaming child, who lay there struggling on the terrace-path, Allan seized the still-twitching body of the monstrous traitor. With passionate strength he dragged it to the parapet. Below, down the path, he caught a swift glimpse of grouped Folk, wondering, staring, aghast. To them he gave no heed. He lifted the body, dripping bright blood.
Grief could pass no further limits. After a time she grew calmer, arose and thought of her child once more. Slowly she returned down the via dolorosa of the terrace-path, the walk where she and Allan had so often and so gaily trodden; the path now so barren, so hateful, so solitary.
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