All this was screamed out at the pitch of her voice into Philip's ear, as he staggered with her up the hill. He toiled onwards with the strength of ten men, for the sake of the figure with the light in her hand, whom he had abandoned for this miserable creature—Angel, his wife. He was resolved to save her, or perish with her. He recalled her face of lofty courage—how her eyes shone in the light, as if she were inspired by the very spirit of self-sacrifice, whilst she held the lantern and urged him to escape—with Lola. As soon as the party on the hill descried Gascoigne, they rushed to meet him, and he hastily relinquished his burden, and fled down the hill, passing a stricken figure in a tree, whose shouts for help proclaimed that the General was in difficulties. * * * * * When her husband had departed with his first love in his arms, Angel stood in the doorway up to her knees in water, holding the lantern to guide them to safety; then, as the flood rose higher and higher, she began to realise the chilly fact, that they had escaped,—and that she was left to face death alone. She endeavoured to fix her mind on the grim visitor who would claim her young life within the next few minutes, but visions of a gay seaside pier, with the waves lapping underneath and around, accompanied by the strains of the Santiago waltz, into her brain. The memory, under such circumstances, was inexpressibly awful. Was she to pass away with the sound of dance music in her ears—here among the turbulent black waters of a runaway lake in the heart of the Himalayas? Well, at least, she had given herself for Lola—her life for that of another. The thought soothed her, and comforted her heart, and Philip would never forget her—sacrifice; she would live for ever, enshrined in his memory; to attain this was—her recompense. The hut was above the strong mud-current, otherwise it would have been immediately overwhelmed and carried away by the first rush of the torrent; but, as it was, it still clung to its foundations, although the water scoured enormous holes in the floor. Angel had climbed up into the window-seat, where she crouched with her lantern, and endeavoured to pray. How her heart plunged at each lurch the building gave; the water was now half-way up the wall, and the end might come at any moment. The hut would soon be swept away, then Philip would see her light floating down on the wild flood, and be sorry when it went out. Oh, he would know what _that_ meant! At this moment the door burst open, and Philip himself half swam, half waded in. Yes, he had come back for her; she was desperately glad, and yet it meant two lives, instead of one! He was exhausted, and almost breathless, as he made his way over to her, and gasped out: "We have just one chance, Angel—the roof; you trust yourself to me." She nodded—for she could not speak.