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"What is it?" she cried out low, and peering into his face. "Where am
I?"
He bowed his head sadly, without a word.
". . . Who are you?"
He knelt down slowly before her, and touched the hem of her coarse black
baize skirt. "Your slave," he said.
She caught sight then of the heap of rubbish that had been the house,
all misty in the cloud of dust. "Ah!" she cried, pressing her hand to
her forehead.
"I carried you out from there," he whispered at her feet.
"And they?" she asked in a great sob.
He rose, and taking her by the arms, led her gently towards the
shapeless ruin half overwhelmed by a landslide. "Come and listen," he
said.
The serene moon saw them clambering over that heap of stones, joists and
tiles, which was a grave. They pressed their ears to the interstices,
listening for the sound of a groan, for a sigh of pain.
At last he said, "They died swiftly. You are alone."
She sat down on a piece of broken timber and put one arm across her
face. He waited--then approaching his lips to her ear: "Let us go," he
whispered.


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