I can replenish the oil in the lamp, and while
there is wick the lamp shall burn--ay, even for hundreds of years. But
give me a lamp wherein the wick is consumed, and I shall waste my oil;
for it will not burn unless there be the fibre to carry it. So also is
the body of man. While there is the flame of vitality and the essence of
life in his nerves and finer tissues, I will put blood in his veins, and
if he meet with no accident he may live to see hundreds of generations
pass by him. But where there is no vitality and no essence of life in a
man, he must die; for though I fill his veins with blood, and cause his
heart to beat for a time, there is no spark in him--no fire, no nervous
strength. So is Miss Westonhaugh now--dead while yet breathing, and
sighing her sweet farewells to her lover."
"I know. I understand you very well. But do not deny that you might have
saved her. Why did you not?" Ram Lal smiled a strange smile, which I
should have described as self-satisfied, had it not been so gentle and
kind.
"Ah yes!" he said, with something like a sigh, though there was no
sorrow or regret in it. "Yes, Griggs, I might have saved her life. I
would certainly have saved her--well, if he had not persuaded her to go
down into that steaming country at this time of year, since it was my
advice to remain here.
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