“Unless thou art able to help him, Ayesha,” I put in, by way of a reminder, “thy Kallikrates will soon be far beyond thy calling.  Surely he dieth even now.”

“True,” she said, with a start.  “Oh, why did I not come before!  I am unnerved—­my hand trembles, even mine—­and yet it is very easy.  Here, thou Holly, take this phial,” and she produced a tiny jar of pottery from the folds of her garment, “and pour the liquid in it down his throat.  It will cure him if he be not dead.  Swift, now!  Swift!  The man dies!”

I glanced towards him; it was true enough, Leo was in his death-struggle.  I saw his poor face turning ashen, and heard the breath begin to rattle in his throat.  The phial was stoppered with a little piece of wood.  I drew it with my teeth, and a drop of the fluid within flew out upon my tongue.  It had a sweet flavour, and for a second made my head swim, and a mist gather before my eyes, but happily the effect passed away as swiftly as it had arisen.

When I reached Leo’s side he was plainly expiring—­his golden head was slowly turning from side to side, and his mouth was slightly open.  I called to Ayesha to hold his head, and this she managed to do, though the woman was quivering from head to foot, like an aspen-leaf or a startled horse.  Then, forcing the jaw a little more open, I poured the contents of the phial into his mouth.  Instantly a little vapour arose from it, as happens when one disturbs nitric acid, and this sight did not increase my hopes, already faint enough, of the efficacy of the treatment.

One thing, however, was certain, the death throes ceased—­at first I thought because he had got beyond them, and crossed the awful river.  His face turned to a livid pallor, and his heart-beats, which had been feeble enough before, seemed to die away altogether—­only the eyelid still twitched a little.  In my doubt I looked up at Ayesha, whose head-wrapping had slipped back in her excitement when she went reeling across the room.  She was still holding Leo’s head, and, with a face as pale as his own, watching his countenance with such an expression of agonised anxiety as I had never seen before.  Clearly she did not know if he would live or die.  Five minutes slowly passed and I saw that she was abandoning hope; her lovely oval face seemed to fall in and grow visibly thinner beneath the pressure of a mental agony whose pencil drew black lines about the hollows of her eyes.  The coral faded even from her lips, till they were as white as Leo’s face, and quivered pitifully.  It was shocking to see her:  even in my own grief I felt for hers.

“Is it too late?” I gasped.

She hid her face in her hands, and made no answer, and I too turned away.  But as I did so I heard a deep-drawn breath, and looking down perceived a line of colour creeping up Leo’s face, then another and another, and then, wonder of wonders, the man we had thought dead turned over on his side.