wall--which had been discovered in her absence--as her goal, just as
the human hounds, doubling on their tracks, tore into the street, to
see the fluttering end of her dress disappear round a corner.

She ran with a twisting, shuffling lope horrible to see; she looked
like some wounded animal as, bent double, she paused again for breath,
just for one moment, with face to the wall. She ran on; she stumbled
and regained her footing; she fell on her crippled knees; then onto her
face in the dust, where she remained, breathing like a far-spent horse,
with bloodstained foam flecking the corners of her mouth. A great
shivering shook her as she listened to the shouting, yelling mob
questing this way and that for the lost quarry. She did not pray; poor
Zulannah! she knew nothing of a God of Love or Pity to pray to; she lay
still, burying her fingers in the sand, clinging desperately to what
remained to her of life.

They swept round the corner, those men and women, screaming vengeance
on her who lived in luxury whilst they starved; who hung herself with
jewels and neglected to pay the trifling debts of the bazaar; who lived
in a house built on the site of their demolished homes. They rushed
past and over her lying begrimed and foul, one with the dust of the
ill-lighted street They drove her face into the dust; they marked her
beautiful body with the shape of their feet; but they did not kill her.

She wanted to live.

The pack passed on to the bazaar, carrying with it the definite news of
the return of the woman Zulannah; and if you had looked close you would
have seen the cunning in the eyes of the man who had carried the hens;
if you had listened to his whispered words you would have shivered at