dha’s grace, not a hair of your head shall be harmed.”
“And my friend here?” I asked, waving my hand toward the altar.
He thought that I referred to Walla and replied that she should be cared for equally with myself; when I made him understand that it was Maurice, he actually smiled.
“Why need you concern yourself about him? Already his soul is separated from the material covering. We have but to send that down by the way our bodies are to go. He will never know until it pleases Buddha to send him back to the material again.”
He ceased to address me with this, and out came those infernal prayer wheels again and the grinding of a petition, of a quarter of an hour’s length began.
While this was in progress I made my last visit to the courtyard. Being in Rome I resolved to do precisely as the Romans did, but I wanted one more look at daylight—moreover I was curiously anxious to know how the water stood.
When I reached the temple I found the floor covered to the depth of half an inch.
Now the temple floor was raised about three feet above the yard level, and the platform behind the statue where the stairs began, perhaps as much more.
I waded through the icy water, and gaining the door, peered out into the courtyard.
There was absolutely no hope. The water was now pouring over the wall on all sides. It would have taken a boat to reach the big tree.
Back in the underground chamber again, I placed myself beside Maurice and waited for the clicking prayer wheels to cease, feeling a sense of calm assurance difficult to explain.
Just then Walla aroused from her lethargy, and tottering to her feet questioned me as to the situation, which I explained as well as I could.
She said but little; seeming to take it for granted that nothing could be done to change matters.
“Do they take him?” she asked after a moment.
“Yes.”
“Then I shall go too.”
“You will have to go or drown.”
She smiled sadly.
