She watched the battle, unfeeling as marble.
Let the wretch die; let him feel the fear of death; let him suffer as he had made others suffer.

What new complications might follow Umballa's death did not alarm her.

How could she be any worse off than she was?
He had polluted her cheeks with his kisses.

He had tortured and shamed her as few white women have been.

Mercy?
He had said that day that he knew not the word.
"Ah, you dog! Haven't I prayed God for days for this chance?
You black caha! Die!" But Umballa was not to die at that moment or in that fashion.
That nervous energy which had infused the colonel with the strength of a lion went out like a spark, and as quickly.