“Merciful heavens!” he exclaimed, “this is terrible!”
“What?” cried Maurice, turning suddenly around.
“Got a fit, Mirrikh?” asked the Dortor, lazily, never stirring from his comfortable roost on the k’ang.
For the moment the adept did not answer, but just stood there with his eyes fixed on nothingness, an expression of unmistakable horror mingled with deep pity plainly pictured upon his face.
“What is it? What is the matter? Speak,” persisted Maurice.
He sighed and raised his head slowly. Then up came one hand which was brushed before his eyes.
“Gentlemen,” he said, with more agitation than I ever afterward saw him display, “we are needed outside. There is human life in peril; if there is yet time I propose to save it; who will go?”
“Go where? What can you mean?” I exclaimed.
“I mean that on a ledge a little off the road on the other slope of this ridge there is at this very moment a woman—she is freezing rapidly—she sits beside a man—I think the man is already dead, or at least dying—he is an old man—I can see his grey hair—he—ah! She calls! She calls! Come! Come! Wylde! Come Mr. De Veber—before it is too late.”
He threw his cloak about him, over that drew a sheepskin coat and rushed to the door, nearly falling into the arms of Ah Schow who was just coming back from his visit to the mules.
“Out of my way!” he shouted. “Why do you block my path? De Veber are you never going to make a move?”
Maurice seized his gun and was ready, for he had not removed any of his outer wraps.
“Mad! Mad! Ye Gods! I’m buried with a lot of lunatics!” cried Philpot, “For heaven’s sake don’t you desert me, Wylde. I had some hope that you and I, at least, might get back to civilization again.”
“I’m with Maurice,” I answered hurriedly, and losing no time rushed out to face the storm.
