It was Romola Borria. Her white arms were upheld in a gesture of entreaty. Her lips were moving.
Peter descended a step, and stopped, swaying slightly.
"What—what——" he began.
"He is dead!" came the whisper from the small deck. "I killed him! I killed him! Do you hear me? I am free! Free! Why do you stare at me so? I am ready to go. But you must ask me! I will not follow you. I will not!"
And Peter, clutching with a sick and sinking feeling at the hard rope, found that his lips and tongue were working, but that no sound other than a dull muttering issued from his mouth. Momentarily he was dumb—paralyzed.
"I am not a tool of the Gray Dragon," went on the vehement whisper. "I am not!"
And to Peter came full realization that Romola Borria was lying, or endeavoring to trick him, for the last time.
"Go back—there," he managed to stammer at last. "Go back! I won't have you! I'm through with this damned place."
Painfully he climbed up a few rungs.
Then the voice of Romola, no longer a whisper, but loud, broken, despairing, came to him for the last time: