He could hear more clearly the roar of the death-floods.

But close to him was smooth water, and he stood now on a shelving tongue of rock and shale, upon which the current had flung him.

In front of him was a rock wall.
Behind him was another.

There was no footing except where he stood.

And Marette was not with him.
Only the truth could batter at his brain as he stood there.