She followed him in utter silence, Peter walking at her right hand.  Up the steep goat-path which Dacre had so arrogantly ascended in the wake of his halting guide they made their slow progress in dumb procession.  Stella moved as one rapt in some terrible dream.  Again that drugged feeling was upon her, that sense of being bound by a spell, and now she knew that the spell was evil.  Once or twice her brain stirred a little when Peter offered his silent help, and she thanked him and accepted it while scarcely realizing what she did.  But for the most part she remained in that state of awful quiescence, the inertia of one about whom the toils of a pitiless Fate were closely woven.  There was no escape for her.  She knew that there could be no escape.  She had been caught trespassing in a forbidden paradise, and she was about to be thrust forth without mercy.

High up on a shelf of naked rock their guide stood and waited—­a ragged, incongruous figure against the purity of the new day.  The early sun had barely topped the highest mountains, but a great gap between two mighty peaks revealed it.  As Stella pressed forward, she came suddenly into the splendour of the morning.

It affected her strangely.  She felt as Moses must have felt when the Glory of God was revealed to him.  The brightness was intolerable.  It seemed to pierce her through and through.  She was not able to look upon it.

“Excellency,” the stranger said, “it was here.”

She moved forward and stood beside him.  Quiveringly, in a voice she hardly recognized as her own, she spoke.  “You were with him.  You brought him here.”

He made a gesture as of one who repudiates responsibility.  “I, excellency, I am the servant of the Holy Ones,” he said.  “I had a message for him.  I knew that the Holy Ones were angry.  It was written that the white sahib should not tread the sacred ground.  I warned him, excellency, and then I left him.  And now the Holy Ones have worked their will upon him, and lo, he is gone.”

Stella gazed at the man with fascinated eyes.  The confidence with which he spoke somehow left no room for question.

“He is mad,” she murmured, half to herself and half to Peter.  “Of course he is mad.”

And then, as if a hand had touched her also, she moved forward to the edge of the precipice and looked down.

The rush of the torrent rose up like the tumult of many voices calling to her, calling to her.  The depth beneath her feet widened to an abyss that yawned to engulf her.  With a sick sense of horror she realized that ghastly, headlong fall—­from warm, throbbing life on the enchanted height to instant and terrible destruction upon the green, slimy boulders over which the water dashed and roared continuously far below.  Here he had sat, that arrogant lover of hers, and slipped from somnolent enjoyment into that dreadful gulf.  At her feet—­proof indisputable of the truth of the story she had been told—­lay a charred fragment of the cigar that had doubtless been between his lips when he had sunk into that fatal sleep.  The memory of Peter’s words flashed through her brain.  He had smoked opium.  She wondered if Peter really knew.  But of what avail now to conjecture?  He was gone, and only this mad native vagabond had witnessed his going.