Now, the earthquake and storm had overthrown the clump of trees which hid the little amphitheater on the top of the cliff, still intact, whence Truda and her forebears for so many years watched the open sea, and the long path was clearly visible from where they stood. They could see her bright figure, outlined against the gray rocks, running toward the brink. Of what she would do there, no one, of course, could be sure, but in Beekman’s mind flashed a suspicion which grew to a certainty. He forgot Stephanie; he forgot Harnash; he forgot his wrongs--he forgot everything but that far-off flying figure!
"My God!" he cried, "she thinks I don’t care. She’ll throw herself over the cliff."
Without a word, he tore over the debris-encumbered path, and without a second’s hesitation the others followed. Even Stephanie gathered up her skirts and ran like Camilla over the ground. Dr. Welch, happening to turn at the moment, saw them and followed also. As he ran, with deadly fear in his heart, Beekman shouted after her.
"Truda," he cried. "Stop! for God’s sake, wait!"
It was the first intimation the others had received that she understood English. But Truda ran on. She heard his voice, indeed. She partly comprehended his appeal, but it seemed to her that it was only in pity that he called. She was possessed by a certain panic terror, a certain wild jealousy, a certain horrible despair. She could never be like that glorious creature over whom the men quarreled as men have quarreled since time and the world began. Even if he did love her, he could never love her long. There was a passionate abasement in the swift comparisons she had been making since she had been brought on board the yacht. It was no use. She must go on. And not only did her own misery impel her flying feet, but some vivid considerations for his happiness. She was not of his kind. She was only a savage islander. She only realized it since she had been picked up by the yacht, because she had never before had any standards of comparison. Thus, in spite of the second that her heart gave to his appeal for the moment, she ran on.
Beekman stumbled and fell. He fell on his wounded arm, opening the wound again. He lay half-stunned for a moment, and by the time he had struggled to his feet the others had joined him. The race was lost. Truda had won. The little group around Beekman could see clearly into the amphitheater which Truda had entered. She stepped to the edge and glanced down. The sheer fall of perhaps five hundred feet would kill her instantly. It had been her purpose to fling herself from the brink without a moment’s hesitation, but, like Lot’s wife, she was fain to take one look backward, one glance of farewell.