He heard her turn to go. He remained motionless, his hands clenched at his side. No other words could have expressed more poignantly his own vision of the future, and yet he dared not answer, dared not look at her.
"Ask them to send help," he said thickly. His voice shook beneath the harsh self-repression. "You see—how it is—I can't leave here—I couldn't leave her here——"
"Yes—I understand—I'll send help." The door opened. Yet he knew that she still lingered. "Major Tristram—I'm afraid, somehow, it's too late."
He turned. He heard what she had heard.
"Close the door," he said quietly.
She obeyed. There was something inexpressibly gentle and docile about her. He remembered—not in thought, but in a vivid picture—how once before they had confronted each other in that selfsame place—he saw her resolute, defiant of life, splendidly self-assured. All that was gone. It was as though her physical being, her bodily vitality had been worn away, and that there was nothing left but the spirit, unbroken, yet intensely weary.
The sound of voices grew nearer. The cries, at first blurred into one, became separate, sharp, shrill notes played on the dull bass of the booming waters. Inarticulate though they were, they carried an unmistakable significance; they were cries of fear, more terrible, more pitiless than anger.
Tristram made a gesture of quiet understanding.
"Yes, it is too late," he said. "It's been working up to this. We shall have to face it together."
She assented silently.