steadily; the foothills formed a dam of perhaps half a mile in length, over which the water soon began to descend with a continuous flow, filling the ravines on either side of the table upon which the lamasery stood, until now all landmarks had vanished and we were in the midst of water, flowing past us with noiseless but steady rush. Slowly it rose, but the rise was steady; as I gazed down over the parapet of the old tower I could see that it was almost on a level with the base of the lamasery walls.
Meanwhile I had returned several times to the underground chamber to examine the condition of Maurice's body. There was no change in its appearance. I could not think otherwise than that my friend was dead.
“We shall have to make the best of it,” I said, in response to the Doctor’s statement of the facts of the situation. “Did you learn from Padma what we most particularly wanted to know?”
“About the means of escape?”
“Yes.”
“I asked him.”
“Well, what did he say?”
“He said to tell you that you need be under no alarm, that there are secrets connected with Psam-dagong of which Ni-fan-lu and the other lamas know nothing, that there is no danger whatever of our perishing in the flood.”
“Well, upon my word, why couldn’t you say so before! If there is hope why not let me have it? It is not kind, Doctor, to keep me in suspense at a time like this.”
“Why, to tell the truth, I do not altogether believe him,” said the Doctor. “I questioned the old fellow sharply, and it is my belief he’s a blessed falsifier. I could not make head or tail of what he said.”
“But what was the drift of it? Does he expect the water to fall?”
“No; not under any circumstances until the lakes are empty. He says the lamasery will surely be overwhelmed—perhaps swept away.”
“My God! You don’t mean it! Poor Maurice! What is to be done?”
“Poor Maurice! It’s rather poor me, poor you! Maurice is dead. When he committed suicide—and if ever a man in this world committed suicide Maurice did it—I washed my hands of all responsibility concerning him.
