This was also vacant. Back again into the open cave I flew, and flashed the lamp toward the corner where the lamas kept the bags and various belongings sent down the shute from Psam-dagong. Not a vestige of any of these articles remained.
“They have deserted us!” I murmured, striving to be calm; “they have deserted and Ah Schow has gone with them! It is long past midnight, and this must be the morning of the day they have been looking forward to. This is Padma’s revenge.”
With tottering steps I moved toward the cañon. The rawhide bridge over which the lamas had toiled so patiently was missing too, and I strained my eyes as I approached the mouth of the cave, expecting to see it laid across the rift.
Now the roar of the torrent greeted me. I could hear the water’s swash against the rocky walls as it went tumbling through the chasm. Then a splash of rain struck my face, and my ears caught another sound. It was the rushing of the wind through the cañon, and I knew that the storm was still raging above us. Ten steps more and I had reached the brink.
The bridge was there! Oh yes, it was there! I could see it with hideous distinctness as I flashed the light across the rift.
At my feet was the iron peg driven into the rock, by which it had been fastened, but the bridge lay all in a heap on the other side of the cañon, close to the entrance of the passage. By what occult power it had been conveyed there, God alone could tell, but there it was, and who could question that over it the last lama had crossed, and then, doubtless by Padma’s direction, our escape had been cut off.
We were deserted. Left alone to face the horrors of the cave until Death should come to our relief!
