"What is the thing to do in such a case?" Pierre asked.
"It is not good to stand still."
"But what if you are stunned, or do not care?"
"You should care. It is not wise to strain a situation."
Pierre rose, walked up and down the room once or twice, then stood still,
his arms folded, and spoke in a low tone. "Once in the Rockies I was
lost. I crept into a cave at night. I knew it was the nest of some wild
animal; but I was nearly dead with hunger and fatigue. I fell asleep.
When I woke--it was towards morning--I saw two yellow stars glaring where
the mouth of the cave had been. They were all hate: like nothing you
could imagine: passion as it is first made--yes. There was also a
rumbling sound. It was terrible, and yet I was not scared. Hate need
not disturb you.--I am a quick shot. I killed that mountain lion, and I
ate the haunch of deer I dragged from under her . . . "
He turned now, and, facing the doorway, looked out upon the village, to
the roof of a house which they both knew. "Hate," he said, "is not the
most wonderful thing. I saw a woman look once as though she could lose
the whole world--and her own soul. She was a good woman. The man was
bad--most: he never could be anything else. A look like that breaks the
nerve. It is not amusing. In time the man goes to pieces. But before
that comes he is apt to do strange things.
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