PAINTED ROCK
sometimes paints her royal face and fools in sawdust and a ring.
Here was tragedy imminent and instant. This was a resurrection. I read an awful script on Briggs's face; strange writing and reminiscence of a bloody day and a bloody mind. Fear grew there that was half supernatural; and again the fear which was recognition of righteous revenge. Was the man dead? There never was such likeness. He moved his right hand. It went swiftly, and yet slowly. I nearly called out to Tom, and then remembered that if I drew his attention I might be led to shoot. Or I might have to. And I remembered England.
Northrop was as quiet as a carved man. But his eye was on the Colonel.
And once more I understood. This was a game, a legitimate game too. For Northrop spoke.
"Look out, Jack!"
But for that last word I think Briggs might have got the first word after all. He had his "gun" out, but not so quickly as he would have done, as he might have had it. As the
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