"Mem-Sahib—remember that I loved him."
She saw Ayeshi for the last time as on the very verge of the jungle she turned and looked back. His silhouette, cut sharply against the fast-fading light, rose up from the midst of his unhappy followers like a tragic, heroic statue out of a black, uneasy sea. Vahana laughed shrilly, and the sound, breaking the spell of inarticulate terror, let loose a wailing cry which swept in a gust over the rising water.
"Lord—save us—save us——"
She saw Ayeshi lift his hands above his head. She could not have heard his voice, and yet the echo of his impotent agony reached her.
"I am accursed—accursed——"
She saw him no more. Vahana had hurried on into the darkness ahead of them, and Barclay half lifted, half dragged her from the saddle. She made no resistance. But her strength had begun to fail. She tried to free herself from his hold—to stand alone.
"Go on without me—I'm not strong enough—save yourself."
He shook his head stubbornly.
"No—I've nothing left but you. Keep your promise. The path is steep—I can carry you. We're safe now. The ground's rising all the way. We've nothing to fear—nothing. It's dark, of course—hideously dark. Give me your hand." His was dry and cold. It filled her with a nameless disgust—a strange pity. It was as though, helpless as she was, he clung to her.
"Why—you're shivering!" he muttered. "What is it? You're not afraid? What is there to be afraid of? We're safe here——"