As the rock crushed his foot the pain seemed to bring him immediately into full possession of his faculties, and he roared like an enraged bull.  I turned and looked back as I beat a hasty retreat down the hill.  He had seized one of the air-roots of the banyan tree, and raised himself upon his right leg.  The expression of his face as the moonlight fell upon it was something never to be forgotten.  It riveted me to the spot with the fascination of horror.  He shook his fist at me fiercely, as he shrieked from the back of his throat: 

“You infidel cur!  You may as well try to brush away the Himalyas with a silk handkerchief as to escape the wrath of Rama Ragobah.  Go!  Bury yourself in seclusion at the farthermost corner of the earth, and on one night Ragobah and the darkness shall be with you!”

These were the last words this fiend incarnate ever spoke to me, but I know they are prophetic, and that he will keep his oath.

The next day I learned that Lona was dead.  She had died with my name upon her lips, and her secret—­the explanation of her strange conduct on that night—­died with her.  I shall never know it.  Bitterly did I repent my inability to reach her.  The thought that she had waited in vain for me, that with her last breath she had called upon me, and I had answered not, was unendurable torture, and I fled India and came to America in the futile endeavour to forget it all.  Out of my black past there shone but one bright star —­her love!  All these long years have I oriented my soul by that sweet, unforgettable radiance, prizing it above a galaxy of lesser joys.

There is little more to be said.  I shall meet death as I have stated—­I am sure of it—­and no man will see the blow given.  Remember, as I loved that Indian maiden with a passion which death has not chilled, so I loathe my rival with a hatred infinite and all-consuming; for, somehow, I know that demon crushed out the life of my fragile lotus-flower.  He will work his will upon me, but if his cunning enable him to escape the gallows, my soul, if there be a conscious hereafter, will never rest in peace.  Remember this, my dear child, and your promise, that God may bless you even as I bless you.

It was some time after Gwen had finished this interesting document before any of us spoke.  The narrative, and the peculiar circumstances under which it had been read, deeply impressed us.  At length Maitland said in a subdued voice, as if he feared to break some spell: 

“The Indian girl’s letter; let us find that, and also the will.”

Gwen went to the drawer in which her father kept his private papers, and soon produced them both.  Maitland glanced hastily at the letter, and said:  “You have already heard its contents”; then turning to Gwen, he said:  “I will keep it with your permission.  Now for the will.”  It was handed to him, and his face fell as he read it.  In a moment he turned to us, and said: