It was an awful moment for Flora. She would have rendered assistance to Mehal, but that was impracticable, as she found, for Wanna twisted herself about so rapidly as to frustrate the attempts which Flora made to grasp her. It was truly a struggle for life; for, ere it ceased, one of the strugglers must die. They knew that, and so they fought with the desperate energy which nerves a human being when dear life is at stake. The efforts of Wanna were growing gradually weaker. Mehal had worked one of her hands up to the other’s throat, and she was pressing her thumb and fingers together, until Wanna’s eyes started. The hag knew now that only by a desperate effort could she free herself, and save her life. But even if that were impossible, she was determined that her antagonist should not live to enjoy her triumph. She put forth what little strength remained in her withered frame. It was an upleaping of the dying fire again, and for a moment the battle raged fiercer than ever. They spun round, and reeled, and staggered. The end was coming. Wanna felt that. With an almost superhuman effort, she managed to drag her foe to the verandah, and, with a quick and sudden movement, drew the key from her girdle, and, uttering a cry of ferocious joy, was about to hurl it over the railings. But a counter-movement of Mehal’s broke the force of the jerk, and the key fell on the extreme edge. Flora darted forward, but she could not pass the combatants. Wanna saw that her chance had gone. But nerving herself for one final struggle, she dragged Mehal round. They lost their balance--they fell to the floor--they rolled against the wooden railings, which, old and rotten with age, broke down with a crash. Away went the key into space. The two women were on the extreme edge of the verandah! Flora rushed forward once more. She made a frantic clutch at their garments, with a view of dragging them back. It was too late! Death let fall his spear, and took the stakes. The fighters rolled over, and Flora stood petrified with horror, still holding in her hands some remnants of blood-stained garments. The wind moaned amongst the ivy on the walls. In its wailing she seemed to hear a prophetic voice that told her the struggle she had been an unwilling witness to between the two women, but represented the greater struggle between two races that had just commenced; and, before it could end, the soil of India should be drenched with blood. The night wind moaned. It sounded in her ears like a requiem for her slaughtered friends. It seemed like an agonised cry of pain, wrung from hearts suffering almost more than mortal sorrow. The night wind moaned--a dirge-like moan, that told that the Angel of Peace had been beaten, broken-winged, into the dust; and through the Orient land were stalking the grim demons, War and Woe.