He stood motionless above her, his heart throbbing, his own eyes lowered upon the ground.  He was conscious of the movement of her lips, yet could never afterward recall even a broken sentence of that prayer.  Possibly it was too sacred even for his ears, only to be measured by the infinite love of God.  She ceased to speak at last, the low voice sinking into an inarticulate whisper, yet she remained kneeling there motionless, no sound audible excepting her repressed sobbing.  Driven by the requirements of haste, Winston touched her gently upon the shoulder.

“Come, my girl,” he said, the sight of her suffering almost more than he could bear.  “You have done all you can here now.”

She arose to her feet slowly, never looking toward him, never appearing to heed his presence.  He noticed the swelling of her throat as though the effort to breathe choked her, the quick spasmodic heaving of her bosom, and set his teeth, struggling against the strain upon his own nerves.

“You will go with me now?”

She glanced about at him, her eyes dull, unseeing.

“Oh, yes—­now,” she answered, as if the words were spoken automatically.  He led her away, ignoring the constant efforts she made, as they climbed the bank, to gaze back across his shoulder.  Finally the intervening branches completely hid that white, dead face below, and, as if with it had vanished all remaining strength of will, or power of body, the girl drooped her head against him, swaying blindly as she walked.  Without a word he drew her close within his arm, her hair blowing across his face, her hand gripping his shoulder.  It was thus they came forth amid the clearer starlight upon the ridge summit.  Again and again as they moved slowly he strove to speak, to utter some word of comfort, of sympathy.  But he could not—­the very expression of her partially revealed face, as he caught glimpses of it, held him speechless.  Deep within his heart he knew her trouble was beyond the ministration of words.  Some one was standing out in front of the cabin.  His eyes perceived the figure as they approached, and he could not bring himself to speak of this thing of horror in her presence.

“Beth,” he said gently, but had to touch her to attract attention, “I want you to sit here and wait while I arrange for our journey.  You are not afraid?”

“No,” her voice utterly devoid of emotion, “I am not afraid.”

“You will remain here?”

She looked at him, her face expressionless, as though she failed to understand.  Yet when he pointed to the stone she sat down.

“Yes,” she answered, speaking those common words hesitatingly as if they were from some unfamiliar foreign tongue, “I am to do what you say.”

She bent wearily down, her head buried within her hands.  For a moment Winston stood hesitating, scarcely daring to leave her.  But she did not move, and finally he turned away, walking directly toward that indistinct figure standing beside the cabin door.  As he drew closer he recognized the old miner, his rifle half-raised in suspicion of his visitor.  It must be done, and the engineer went at his task directly.