of our boat. I did what I could by trailing one of the afghans over the stern.
"I am afraid it is all of no use," said Reva calmly, after attentively watching them for some time.
"They cannot reach us before we pass those rocks."
"And then?" said I.
"Then, Ismar, we are beyond human aid."
We sat for some time after this in silence, I holding her unresisting hand in mine. We passed the fatal rocks, beyond which the waters seemed to slope with a frightful declivity toward the abyss beyond. As we did so, the boat that had come so daringly to our rescue, now scarcely a quarter of a mile off, turned rapidly in its course, and none too soon. The steersman's companion, a young and beautiful girl, after returning Reva's mute gesture of thanks and farewell, buried her face in her hands, and seemed to weep.
Nor was she our only sympathizer. All around we could see people gathering to the shores,—such news spreads, even now, with wonderful rapidity. Some stood in silent horror; some covered their faces with their bands; a few, with upraised hands, seemed to implore the mercy of Heaven. All this, and much more, I took in at a glance,—the blue and almost cloudless sky; the green woods gently waving in the same wind that rippled the surface of the water under the rays of the setting sun, even the rainbow-tinted vapor that overhung the abyss, and was now viewed by us from where none had returned to tell the tale.
"This, then, is death," said I, after we had passed the rocks. Oh, with what regretful yearning did I gaze
