It was Mrs. Falchion's life now, as well as
Amshar's. They swayed. They hung on the edge of the rocky chasm. Then we
lost the gleam of the knife, and the Arab shivered, and toppled over.
Mrs. Falchion would have gone with him, but Amshar caught her about the
waist, and saved her from the fall which would have killed her as
certainly as it killed the Arab lying at the bottom of the tank. She had
managed to turn the knife in the Arab's hand against his own breast, and
then suddenly pressed her body against it; but the impulse of the act
came near carrying her over also.
Amshar was kneeling at her feet, and kissing her gown gratefully. She
pushed him away with her foot, and, coolly turning aside, began to
arrange her hair. As I approached her, she glanced down at the Arab.
"Horrible! horrible!" she said. I remembered that these were her words
when her husband was lifted from the sea to the 'Fulvia'.
Not ungently, she refused my hand or any assistance, and came down among
the rest of the party. I could not but feel a strange wonder at the
powerful side of her character just shown--her courage, her cool daring.
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