“Oh, go away!  Go away!” she wailed.  “Let me die!”

“I will go away,” he answered swiftly, “if you will promise to drink what is in this cup.”

He pressed it against her hand, and she took it almost mechanically.  “It is only brandy and water,” he said.  “You will drink it?”

“If I must,” she answered weakly.

“You must,” he rejoined, and she heard him rise and move away.  She strained her ears to listen, but she very soon ceased to hear him; and then raising herself cautiously, she drank.  A warm thrill of life ran through her veins with the draught, steadying her, refreshing her.  But it was long before she could bring herself to look round.

The miniature roar of the stream was the only sound to be heard, and when at length she glanced downwards there was no sign anywhere of the ghastly spectacle she had just witnessed.  She saw the rock behind which she had knelt, and again a violent fit of shuddering assailed her.  What did that rock conceal?

Nevertheless she presently took courage to rise, looking about her furtively, half afraid that Nick might pop up at any moment to detain her.  For she felt that she could not stay longer in that place, whatever he might say or do.  The one idea that possessed her was to get away from him, to escape from his horrible presence, whither she neither knew nor cared.  If he appeared to stop her then, she thought that she would go raving mad.

But she saw nothing of him as she stood there, and with deep relief she began to creep away.  Half a dozen yards she covered, and then stood suddenly still with her heart in her throat.  There, immediately in front of her, flung prone upon the ground with his face on his arms, was Nick.  He did not move at her coming, did not seem to hear.  And the thought came to her to avoid him by a circuit, and yet escape.  But something—­a queer, indefinable something—­made her pause.  Why was he lying there?  Had he been hurt in that awful struggle?  Was he—­was he unconscious?  Was he—­dead?

She fought back the impulse to fly, not for its unworthiness, but because she felt that she must know.

Trembling, she moved a little nearer to the prostrate, motionless figure.

“Nick!” she whispered under her breath.

He made no sign.

Her doubt turned to sudden, overmastering fear that pricked her forward in spite of herself.

“Nick!” she said again, and finding herself close to him she bent and very slightly touched his shoulder.

He moved then, and she almost gasped with relief.  He turned his head sharply without raising himself, and she saw the grim lines of his lean cheek and jaw.

“That you, Muriel?” he said, speaking haltingly, spasmodically.  “I’m awfully sorry.  Fact is—­I’m not well.  I shall be—­better—­directly.  Go back, won’t you?”

He broke off, and lay silent, his hands clenched as if he were in pain.