It was a blow greater, far greater than one that could have been struck in mere physical contact.

Houston reeled with the effect of it; he gasped, he struggled aimlessly, futilely, for words to answer it.
Vaguely, dizzily, knowing nothing except a dim, hazy desire to rid himself of the loathsomeness of it, Houston started to the door, only to be pulled back in the gigantic grip of Ba'tiste Renaud.

The old Canadian was glaring now, his voice was thunderous.
"No! No! You shall not go! You hear Ba'teese, huh?
You tell Medaine that is a lie! Un'stan'?
That is a lie!" "It is," Houston heard his voice as though coming from far away, "but I don't know how to answer it.

I--I--can't answer it.

Where is Miss Jierdon?
Is she here?
May I see her ?" "Miss Jierdon," Medaine Robinette answered him as though with an effort, "went back to camp last night." "May I bring her here, to repeat that before me?
There's been some sort of a horrible mistake--she didn't know what she was saying.