Holding it in front of
him as a weapon, he stalked directly at the men and women before him.
The torch was a poor enough defense against spears and axes, but Ross
did not care--he put into this last gamble all the determination he
could summon. Nor did he realize what a figure he presented to the
tribesmen. A man who had crossed a curtain of fire without apparent
hurt, who appeared to wash in tongues of flame without harm, and who now
called upon fire in turn as a weapon, was no man but a demon!
The wall of people wavered and broke. Women screamed and ran; men
shouted. But no one threw a spear or struck with an ax. Ross walked on,
a man possessed, looking neither to the right or left. He was in the
camp now, stalking toward the fire burning before Foscar's tent. He did
not turn aside for that either, but holding the torch high, strode
through the heart of the flames, risking further burns for the sake of
insuring his ultimate safety.
The tribesmen melted away as he approached the last line of tents, with
the open land beyond.
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