"There is a way—past Heerut—I will show you—only let me ride with you, Sahib Barclay——"
The Eurasian nodded. He no longer appealed to Ayeshi, who was sunk in an apathy of despair. He raised himself again in the saddle.
"There is a way to safety!" he shouted. "Vahana, the Holy Man, will lead us—the gods have sent a warning—the gods are with us—follow!"
He lifted Vahana into the saddle behind him and swung his horse round towards Heerut. Ayeshi lingered; Barclay passed him with a gesture of contempt. The control was in his hands now. It was for him to act—to retrieve disaster. He had become the leader—the leader of his people. He heard the rush of feet behind him—the sound thrilled through his blood in a storm of exultation.
"Follow me!" he shouted. "I will lead you."
They followed. They swept Ayeshi into their maelstrom and carried him with them, but they too had ceased to heed him. Nor did he try to regain his hold. The right to command—even to resist—had gone. He was no longer Rajah—exiled and disinherited, yet still lord of his destiny. He was Ayeshi, the village story-teller, the servant of Tristram Sahib, the dreamer bereft of his dreams. He would have been glad to meet the end.
But the people he had betrayed bore him in their midst, as they fled before the oncoming waters.
* * * * *
Tristram heard only the deepening voice of the river, the rain splashing on the roof, and the rush and swirl of the water as it tore through the village gutters. Even these things, though they reached his hearing, scarcely touched his consciousness. They walled him in. They formed a sombre background for his wife's voice.
He sat beside her, her hot little hand in his, and it seemed to him that they talked together for the first time in their lives. Her voice was weak and husky with pain, but the pain itself relaxed its grip on her, allowing her to sink slowly and mercifully.