She looked at Chiu-Ming—and I knew that to her the sight of the crumpled form carried no recognition of the human, nothing of kin to her. There was a faint wonder in her eyes, no longer light-filled, when at last she turned back to us. Long she considered us.
“Now,” she broke the silence, “now something stirs within me that it seems has long been sleeping. It bids me take you with me. Come!”
Abruptly she turned from us, glided to the crevice. We looked at each other, seeking council, decision.
“Chiu-Ming,” Drake spoke. “We can't leave him like that. At least let's cover him from the vultures.”
“Come.” The woman had reached the mouth of the fissure.
“I'm afraid! Oh, Martin—I'm afraid.” Ruth reached little trembling hands to her tall brother.
“Come!” Norhala called again. There was an echo of harshness, a clanging, peremptory and inexorable, in the chiming.
Ventnor shrugged his shoulders.
“Come, then,” he said.
With one last look at the Chinese, the lammergeiers already circling about him, we walked to the crevice. Norhala waited, silent, brooding until we passed her; then glided behind us.