She turned to look again upon the stranger, but he had withdrawn
himself. She saw only the Indian servant, standing close beside her, his
dark eyes following her every action with wistful vigilance.

Meeting her desperate gaze, he pressed a little nearer, like a faithful
dog, protective and devoted. "Come away, my _mem-sahib!_" he entreated
very earnestly. "It is the Gate of Death."

That pierced her anew. Her desolation came upon her in an overwhelming
wave. She turned with a great cry, and threw her arms wide to the risen
sun, tottering blindly towards the emptiness that stretched beneath her
feet. And as she went, she heard the roar of the torrent dashing down
over its grim boulders to the great river up which they two had glided
in their dream of enchantment aeons and aeons before....

She knew nothing of the sinewy arms that held her back from death though
she fought them fiercely, desperately. She did not hear the piteous
entreaties of poor harassed Peter as he forced her back, back, back,
from those awful depths. She only knew a great turmoil that seemed to
her unending--a fearful striving against ever-increasing odds--and at
the last a swirling, unfathomable darkness descending like a wind-blown
blanket upon her--enveloping her, annihilating her....

And British eyes, keen and grey and stern, looked on from afar, watching
silently, as the Indian bore his senseless _mem-sahib_ away.