"Oh! she would hate that!" cried the girl impulsively. "The idols, the carvings——"
"There must be some protection," Flint told her reluctantly; "you see, jackals and other animals——"
"I understand." She turned away, gazing sadly over the misty, red plain. "And we have to leave her here by herself! Oh! I can't bear it—India is horrible, horrible!"
For the first time she broke down, leaned, weeping, against the trunk of the tree that, maybe, had seen other human sacrifices offered at its foot. Flint waited for a moment; then he went to her, took her hand gently, protectively.
"Don't grieve too much," he said. "She is all right. She would have asked nothing better than to give her life for her work. We are not leaving her here, remember!"
"I wish I could think"—she paused, flung out her hands passionately. "I can't believe anything; I always wondered how she could. And here am I alive and useless, and she has gone. It seems so unfair!"
"I expect she was very tired," said Flint simply, "and is glad to rest. Come back to the camp; Laban will see that it is all finished properly, and I want to talk to you."
They started. It was now almost dark, and he set himself as they went to tell her what he had arranged—that she should take Miss Abigail's personal belongings back to the Mission headquarters.
"The things are all ready," he confessed. "I told the ayah to pack them. There were very few, just a writing-case and a little locked box and some papers and notebooks; one or two photographs, her Bible and Prayer Book. The camp things can all follow later. Of course the clothes she was wearing, and the bed and so on, have had to be burnt, that was necessary; the Mission people will understand."