So, a minute after, the faint splash of his paddle was lost in the rising hum of the storm, and Lance was left looking anxiously for sound or sight of the raft, which, if all had gone well, should by now have started.
But neither came, so, seeing from the light he had snatched up as he passed through the balcony that the air was growing darker, more impenetrable than ever, he shoved off his strange craft, to wait further out in the stream where there was less chance of the raft passing him unseen, unheard.
For this reason also, he paddled up along the wall a bit into the faint glow of light which showed still from the arches of the chapel. And as he lay in it, his ears and eyes strained for the least sound, he could hear as a kind of background to that muffled drumming of the storm, the sound of the pilgrims chanting as they waited for the dawn. The dawn which would bring--what? Who could tell?
The sound of other prayers, echoing from the chapel, made him shake his head, feeling that it was hopeless to look forward--or backward for that matter! Why had Roshan shot the girl--if he had! And why had Pidar Narâyan called her Margherita, and Vincent called her Juliet?
The whole thing was exactly as he had said--an infernal nightmare!
Then a faint sound in front of him made his strong arms sweep the paddle through the stream as he shot into the darkness in search of the raft; in search of Erda.
Not that she needed him, really. The memory of her in that red-and-gold mess jacket above her wedding dress, giving orders to the men squarely, came back to make him smile.
God bless her! She could do well enough without him. That was one comfort. And Dillon could hold his own too, without much help, for a time--that was another; for what with this and that, help was bound to be over-long in coming.