From the bottom of the Nile a turbid convection was taking place, as if the river silt had been stirred up, but the fuming current was assuming a dull red tinge.  The action had been rapid.  Already the stain had predominated, streaks of clear water, only here and there, clarifying the opaque coloring.  The boat rode half its depth in red, the paddle dripped red, the splashes of water within on the bottom were red, the sun shone broadly into the mirroring red, a sliding, reeking red!  A lavender foam broke its bubbles against the drifting raft and a tepid, invisible vapor, like a moist breath, exhaled from the ensanguined surface.

Schools of fish, struggling and leaping, filled the space immediately above the water, and cumbered the raft with a writhing mass.  Numberless crocodiles bounded into the air, braying, snorting, rending one another and churning the river into froth by their hideous battle.  Dwellers of the deep water drifted into the upper tide—­monsters of the muck at the Nile bottom, turtles, huge crawfish, water-newts, spotted snakes, curious bleached creatures that had never seen the day, great drifts of insects, with frogs, tadpoles—­everything of aquatic animate life, came up dead or dying terribly.  Along either bank water-buffalo and wallowing swine, which had been in the pools near the river, clambered ponderously, snorting at every step.

Vessels were putting about and flying for the shore.  From the prow of one tall boat, with distended sails, a figure was seen to spring high and disappear under the red torrent.  Rioting crews of river-men fought for first landing at the accessible places on the banks.  Memphis shrieked and the pastures became compounds of wild beasts that deafened heaven with their savage bellowing.

Pepi and Nari had no thought of saving themselves.  It was Masanath who must save them.  They clung to her, dragging her down with their arms when she attempted to rise.  Bereft of reason, they made the liquid echoes of the river ring with wild cries of mortal terror.

Masanath had sufficient instinct left to urge her to fly.  With a mighty effort she shook off her servants and sprang to the sweep.  Instantly they made to follow her, but she threatened them with a hunting-stick.  The combined weight of the three in the stern would have swamped the frail boat.

Seizing the sweep she poled with superhuman strength toward the nearest shore—­the Marsh of the Discontented Soul.  If she remembered the spirit, she forgot her fear of it.  Any terror was acceptable other than isolation on this mile-wide torrent of blood.

The raft grounded, and as a viscous wash of red lapped across it, she leaped forth, landing with both feet in the horror.  She floundered out and crying to her servants to follow her, fled like a mad thing up the sandy stretch toward the distant wall of rock.

The boat, lightened of her weight, received a backward thrust as she leaped, and drifted out of the reeds.  The heavy current caught it and swept it across the smitten river to the Memphian shore.  It bore two insensible figures.