He kept on looking out past me with fiery, longing eyes, with a mingled expression of wistfulness and hate. He made no answer, but I saw a smile, a smile of indefinable meaning, appear on his colourless lips that a moment after twitched convulsively.
"Do I not?" he said slowly, gasping, as if the words had been torn out of him by a supernatural power.
I pulled the string of the whistle, and I did this because I saw the pilgrims on deck getting out their rifles with an air of anticipating a jolly lark.
At the sudden screech there was a movement of abject terror through that wedged mass of bodies.
"Don't! don't you frighten them away," cried some one on deck disconsolately.
I pulled the string time after time. They broke and ran, they leaped, they crouched, they swerved, they dodged the flying terror of the sound. The three red chaps had fallen flat, face down on the shore, as though they had been shot dead. Only the barbarous and superb woman did not so much as flinch, and stretched tragically her bare arms after us over the sombre and glittering river.
And then that imbecile crowd down on the deck started their little fun, and I could see nothing more for smoke.