And as he rode he saw, a mile away from
him, still farther to the west, a ring of hills, and he prayed that he
might come upon the spring there and upon Argyl. And his moving lips
were not still before he had found her.
He had swept down into a little hollow, the slightest of depressions
in the sandy level, not to be seen until a man was upon its very rim,
floored with scanty, dry brush. His tired horse threw up its head and
shied. But Conniston had seen her first, a huddled heap, almost at his
feet.
"Argyl!" he cried, loudly, dropping to his knees beside her, leaving
his horse to stand staring at them. "Argyl!"
She lay as she had fallen, her right arm stretched straight out in
front of her, her left arm lying close to her side, her face hidden
from him in the sand. She did not move. Had he called to her an hour
ago she would have turned her wide eyes upon him wonderingly. Now, if
he had shouted with the voice of thunder she would not have heard. She
was dead, or death was very close to her. For a moment, a moment
lengthened into an eternity of hell, he did not know whether the
shadowy wings of the stern angel were now rustling over her head or if
already the wings had swept over her and had borne away from him the
soul of the woman he loved.
"Argyl, Argyl dear!" he whispered. "I have come to save you, Argyl. To
take you home.
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