For generations have the Rys of all the Rys been
like the trees that bend only to the whirlwind; and when they speak there
is no more to be said. When it ceases to be so, then the Rys will vanish
from the world, and be as stubble of the field ready for the burning. I
have spoken. Go! And no patrins shall lie upon your road."
A look of savage obedience and sullen acquiescence came into Jethro
Fawe's face, and he took off his hat as one who stands in the presence of
his master. The strain of generations, the tradition of the race without
a country was stronger than the revolt in his soul. He was young, his
blood was hot and brawling in his veins, he was all carnal, with the
superior intelligence of the trained animal, but custom was stronger than
all. He knew now that whatever he might do, some time, not far, his doom
would fall upon him suddenly, as a wind shoots up a ravine from the
desert, or a nightbird rises from the dark.
He set his feet stubbornly, and raised his sullen face and fanatical
eyes. The light of morning was creeping through the starshine, and his
features showed plainly.
"I am your daughter's husband," he said.
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