“Hold your tongue.  Go out of this room,” screamed Kayerts.  “I dismiss you—­you scoundrel!”

Carlier swung a stool.  All at once he looked dangerously in earnest.  “You flabby, good-for-nothing civilian—­take that!” he howled.

Kayerts dropped under the table, and the stool struck the grass inner wall of the room.  Then, as Carlier was trying to upset the table, Kayerts in desperation made a blind rush, head low, like a cornered pig would do, and over-turning his friend, bolted along the verandah, and into his room.  He locked the door, snatched his revolver, and stood panting.  In less than a minute Carlier was kicking at the door furiously, howling, “If you don’t bring out that sugar, I will shoot you at sight, like a dog.  Now then—­one—­two—­three.  You won’t?  I will show you who’s the master.”

Kayerts thought the door would fall in, and scrambled through the square hole that served for a window in his room.  There was then the whole breadth of the house between them.  But the other was apparently not strong enough to break in the door, and Kayerts heard him running round.  Then he also began to run laboriously on his swollen legs.  He ran as quickly as he could, grasping the revolver, and unable yet to understand what was happening to him.  He saw in succession Makola’s house, the store, the river, the ravine, and the low bushes; and he saw all those things again as he ran for the second time round the house.  Then again they flashed past him.  That morning he could not have walked a yard without a groan.

And now he ran.  He ran fast enough to keep out of sight of the other man.

Then as, weak and desperate, he thought, “Before I finish the next round I shall die,” he heard the other man stumble heavily, then stop.  He stopped also.  He had the back and Carlier the front of the house, as before.  He heard him drop into a chair cursing, and suddenly his own legs gave way, and he slid down into a sitting posture with his back to the wall.  His mouth was as dry as a cinder, and his face was wet with perspiration—­and tears.  What was it all about?  He thought it must be a horrible illusion; he thought he was dreaming; he thought he was going mad!  After a while he collected his senses.  What did they quarrel about?  That sugar!  How absurd!  He would give it to him—­didn’t want it himself.  And he began scrambling to his feet with a sudden feeling of security.  But before he had fairly stood upright, a commonsense reflection occurred to him and drove him back into despair.  He thought:  “If I give way now to that brute of a soldier, he will begin this horror again to-morrow—­and the day after—­every day—­raise other pretensions, trample on me, torture me, make me his slave—­and I will be lost!  Lost!  The steamer may not come for days—­may never come.”  He shook so that he had to sit down on the floor again.  He shivered forlornly.  He felt he could not, would not move any more.  He was completely distracted by the sudden perception that the position was without issue—­that death and life had in a moment become equally difficult and terrible.