f the mountain swelled five hundred feet
beneath, watching for the help that never came. Not far from the base of
this point Sihamba began to search in the starlight till she found
what she wanted, the body of a young woman who had crept here to die of
thirst, and whose death and the place of it had been reported to her.

Now she took the jar of white clay, and, aided by Zinti, set about her
ghastly task, daubing the stuff thickly upon the cold features and the
neck and arms and feet. Soon it was done, for such work needed little
care, but then began their true toil since the corpse must be carried up
the sharp point of rock, and that by no easy path. Had not Zinti been so
strong it could never have been done; still, with the aid of Suzanne and
Sihamba herself, at last it was finished.

Up that steep place they toiled, the three of them, dragging the dead
body from knob to knob of rock, well knowing that one false step in the
gloom would send them to be broken to pieces hundreds of feet beneath.
At length they reached the little platform where there was scarcely room
for all of them to stand with their burden, and climbing on to the stone
which was called the Chair, Zinti drew the dead woman into the seat of
it.

Then as Sihamba bade him he wrapped her in Suzanne's long white cape of
goat-skin, putting the hood of it upon her head, after which he made the
corpse fast in a sitting posture, lashing it round the neck and middle
to the back of the stone with the white tanned rimpis in such fashion
that it could not fall or even slip.

"So," said Sihamba grimly, "there sits the bridge upon whom Swart Piet
can feast his eyes while you seek safety across the mountains. Now back
to the town, for from this height I can already see light glimmering in
the east."

Accordingly they returned to the hut and entered it, leaving Zinti
without, none noting them since by now the multitudes were thronging
the narrow way. Here Sihamba lit the lamp, and by its light once more
examined Suzanne carefully, retouching the dye in this place and in
that, till she was sure that no gleam of white showed through it.

"It is good," she said at length; "unless you betray yourself, your skin
will not betray you. And now, lady Swallow, the hour has come for us
to part, and I rejoice to think that some of the debt I owe you I have
repaid. Long ago I told you that very far away I should live to save you
as you saved me, and I am sure that I have sav