On a long cane-chair by the window, carefully covered from the possible danger of any insidious draught, with a mass of soft white wraps and shawls, lay Katharine Westonhaugh—­the transparant phantasm of her brilliant self.  The rich masses of pale hair were luxuriously nestled around her shoulders and the blazing eyes flamed, lambently, under the black brows—­but that was all.  Colour, beside the gold hair and the black eyes, there was hardly any.  The strong clean-cut outline of the features was there, but absolutely startling in emaciation, so that there seemed to be no flesh at all; the pale lips scarcely closed over the straight white teeth.  A wonderful and a fearful sight to see, that stately edifice of queenly strength and beauty thus laid low and pillaged and stript of all colour save purple and white—­the hues of mourning—­the purple lips and the white cheek.  I have seen many people die, and the moment I looked at Katharine Westonhaugh I felt that the hand of death was already closed over her, gripped round, never to relax.  John led me to her side, and a faint smile showed she was glad to see me.  I knelt reverently down, as one would kneel beside one already dead.  She spoke first, clearly and easily, as it seemed.  People who are ill from fever seldom lose the faculty of speech.

“I am so glad you are come.  There are many things I want you to do.”

“Yes, Miss Westonhaugh.  I will do everything.”

“Is he come back?” she asked—­then, as I looked at her brother, she added, “John knows, he is very glad.”

“Yes, we came back this morning together; I came here at once.”

“Thank you—­it was kind.  Did you give him the box?”

“Yes—­he does not know you are ill.  He means to come at eleven.”

“Tell him to come now. Now—­do you understand?” Then she added in a low tone, for my ear only, “I don’t think they know it; I am dying.  I shall be dead before to-night.  Don’t tell him that.  Make him come now.  John knows.  Now go.  I am tired.  No—­wait!  Did he save the man’s life?”

“Yes; the man is safe and free in Thibet.”

“That was nobly done.  Now go.  You have always been kind to me, and you love him.  When you see me again I shall be gone.”  Her voice was perceptibly weaker, though still clearly audible.  “When I am gone, put some flowers on me for friendship’s sake.  You have always been so kind.  Good-bye, dear Mr. Griggs.  Good-bye.  God keep you.”  I moved quickly to the door, fearing lest the piteous sight should make a coward of me.  It was so ineffably pathetic—­this lovely creature, just tasting of the cup of life and love and dying so.

“Bring him here at once, Griggs, please.  I know all about it.  It may save her.”  John Westonhaugh clasped my hand in his again, and pushed me out to speed me on my errand.  I tore along the crooked paths and the winding road, up through the bazaar, past the church and the narrow causeway beyond to the hotel.  I found him still smoking and reading the paper.