High up in the first column was the one she sought.

"CAIRO, _June_ 12.--Great regret is felt here at the sudden
and tragic news of Major Warkworth's death from fever, which
seems to have occurred at a spot some three weeks' distance
from the coast, on or about May 25. Letters from the officer
who has succeeded him in the command of the Mokembe
expedition have now reached Denga. A fortnight after leaving
the coast Major Warkworth was attacked with fever; he made a
brave struggle against it, but it was of a deadly type, and
in less than a week he succumbed. The messenger brought also
his private papers and diaries, which have been forwarded to
his representatives in England. Major Warkworth was a most
promising and able officer, and his loss will be keenly
felt."

Julie fell on her knees beside her swooning cousin. Lady Blanche,
meanwhile, was loosening her daughter's dress, chafing her icy hands, or
moaning over her in a delirium of terror.

"My darling--my darling! Oh, my God! Why did I allow it? Why did I ever
let him come near her? It was my fault--my fault! And it's killed her!"

And clinging to her child's irresponsive hands, she looked down upon her
in a convulsion of grief, which included not a shadow of regret, not a
gleam of pity for anything or any one else in the world but this bone of
her bone and flesh of her flesh, which lay stricken there.

But Julie's mind had ceased to be conscious of the tragedy beside her.
It had passed for the second time into the grasp of an illusion which
possessed itself of the whole being and all its perceptive powers.
Before her wide, terror-stricken gaze there rose once more the same
piteous vision which had tortured her in the crisis of her love for
Warkworth. Against the eternal snows which close in the lake the phantom
hovered in a ghastly relief--emaciated, with matted hair, and purpled
cheeks, and eyes--not to be borne!--expressing the dumb anger of a man,
still young, who parts unwillingly from life in a last lonely spasm of
uncomforted pain.

XXIII

It was midnight in the little inn at Charnex. The rain which for so many
nights in this miserable June had been beating down upon the village had
at last passed away. The night was clear and still--a night when the
voice of mountain torrents, far distant, might reach the ear
suddenly--sharply pure--from the very depths of silence.

Julie was in