"The dam—it is gone!" cried Angel, as the sound died away. "There is not a second to lose; we must fly. Come," and she flung open the door. As she did so the hut reeled over, and a wave of cold water splashed across the threshold. Outside, the drizzle, as illuminated by the lantern, was impregnated with thick red dust, which spread over an area of ten miles. Lola was still on her knees, as if turned to stone, apparently paralysed with horror. The flood was rising in the room, and the hut shivered and trembled like some live thing. "Come, Lola, you must make a dash for your life," urged Angel, placing the lamp in the window, and reaching out to help her to rise. "Every moment it is getting worse." As Lola staggered to her feet, a wave half filled the hut, and she seemed to lose her reason, and broke into a shrill, wild, unbroken scream—it was hardly like the human voice—minute after minute it continued, and every minute it became wilder and more piercing. Suddenly Gascoigne stood in the doorway. He had returned from the dam, only to learn, to his horror, that his wife and Mrs. Waldershare had gone down to the condemned quarters. "I can only take one," he said, huskily, and his eyes rested on Angel. She was farthest away; Lola cowered between her and the door. Lola was crazy with terror, having the fear of death before her eyes, the sound of many waters in her ears. As she stood, in a frenzy, panting like some hunted creature, she was almost unrecognisable, transformed by her emotions. Her livid face, starting eyes, wet, streaming hair, belonged to another woman. "It means—death?" she questioned, with chattering teeth, and read the tragic answer in the man's set, white face. "Then take—_me_—_me_!" she shrieked, and she sprang on him like a leopardess, clung to his neck with locked arms, and the whole weight of a strongly-built, frantic, desperate woman. He was muscular, and in hard condition, but could he ever have released himself from that cruel clutch, the death-grip of mortal fear, the pitiless hold of the drowning? "Oh, Philip, you loved me first," she sobbed; "save me—save me—_me_." Angel surveyed this terrible scene with a gaze of wide-eyed horror. Of course he must save Lola. "Yes, Phil," she said, coming nearer, and her voice was clear and decided. "Go; don't waste precious time. Philip, I intend to stay. Save her first; you can," and she faltered for a second, "come back." Angel held aloft the lantern as she spoke, and her husband, without a word, turned, and splashed with his burthen out into the black night; the water swept him off his feet, for one or two strokes, whilst Lola, who was now demented, and a dead weight, nearly dragged him under. "There is Jim Hailes. No, I'm not coming—they say I killed him—no, I won't die—why should I die? Who said I won his money? There, take it back—a shocking sight, they said. Don't let the Gascoignes hear—no, no, _I'm_ not going to the funeral!"