"A. E. Merritt - The Fox Woman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Merritt A. E)

were bare, and on the shoulder was a bruise and blood, four scarlet streaks above the purpled patch as
though a long-nailed hand had struck viciously, clawing. And as she walked she wept.
The steps began to lift. The woman raised her head and saw how steeply here they climbed. She
stopped, her hands making little fluttering helpless motions.

She turned, listening. She seemed to listen not with ears alone but with every tensed muscle, her entire
body one rapt chord of listening through which swept swift arpeggios of terror. The brittle twilight of the
Yunnan highlands, like clearest crystal made impalpable, fell upon brown hair shot with gleams of dull
copper, upon a face lovely even in its dazed horror. Her grey eyes stared down the steps, and it was as
though they, too, were listening rather than seeing...

She was heavy with child...

She heard voices beyond the bend of the bastion, voices guttural and sing-song, angry and arguing,
protesting and urging. She heard the shuffle of many feet, hesitating, halting, but coming inexorably on.
Voices and feet of the hung-hutzes, the outlaws who had slaughtered her husband and Kenwood and
their bearers a scant hour ago, and who but for Kenwood would now have her. They had found her trail.

She wanted to die; desperately Jean Meredith wanted to die; her faith taught her that then she would
rejoin that scholarly, gentle lover-husband of hers whom she had loved so dearly although his years had
been twice her own. It would not matter did they kill her quickly, but she knew they would not do that.
And she could not endure even the thought of what must befall her through them before death came. Nor
had she weapon to kill herself. And there was that other life budding beneath her heart.

But stronger than desire for death, stronger than fear of torment, stronger than the claim of the unborn
was something deep within her that cried for vengeance. Not vengeance against the hung-hutzes--they
were only a pack of wild beasts doing what was their nature to do. This cry was for vengeance against
those who had loosed them, directed them. For this she knew had been done, although how she knew it
she could not yet tell. It was not accident, no chance encounter that swift slaughter. She was sure of that.

It was like a pulse, that cry for vengeance; a pulse whose rhythm grew, deadening grief and terror,
beating strength back into her. It was like a bitter spring welling up around her soul. When its dark waters
had risen far enough they would touch her lips and she would drink of them .. . and then knowledge
would come to her . .. she would know who had planned this evil thing, and why. But she must have
time--time to drink of the waters--time to learn and avenge. She must live...for vengeance ...

Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!

It was as though a voice had whispered the old text in her ear. She struck her breast with clenched
hands; she looked with eyes grown hard and tearless up to the tranquil sky; she answered the voice:

"A lie! Like all the lies I have been taught of--You! I am through with--You! Vengeance! Whoever gives
me vengeance shall be my God!"

The voices and the feet were nearer. Strange, how slowly, how reluctantly they advanced. It was as
though they were afraid. She studied the woods beyond the pines. Impenetrable; or if not, then
impossible for her. They would soon find her if she tried to hide there. She must go on--up the steps. At
their end might be some hiding place...perhaps sanctuary...

Yes, she was sure the hung-hutzes feared the steps... they came so slowly, so haltingly...arguing,