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hardly spoke either, except to ask how long his companion had been lost. But the other did not know. So they walked all through that night, pausing whenever Tony felt the weight grow heavier on his arm.

Towards morning they stopped for longer than usual, and as he was going to move again he heard the rusty voice say: “Y’ needn’t.”

“What?”

“I can’t go another yard. Y’d better leave me now.”

“Nonsense!” said Tony roughly.

“I mean it—straight. I won’t take long in dyin’.”

That was solid sense. He would die very quickly after the exertion of the past night, for he had no strength left. But Tony’s soul revolted. It was one thing to want to kill him and another to let him extinguish himself without a protest. Besides, it is hard not to value what has cost you very dearly.

“I can carry you,” he said. “We ought to get to water in—in another day’s march. Or less.”

“No use. Y’ couldn’t. Thanks all the same. I’ll stay here.”

“I’ll stay with you, and we can go on after you’ve rested.”

The other shook his head without speaking. Tony sat beside him, angrily helpless, and watched the sky whiten. It was madness to stay—useless folly, he knew that—but he was not in a reasonable mood.

At high noon the other died. One hand groped for a moment, his eyes flickered, and he was gone. Tony waited on; there was nothing else to do now till the day’s end. He scraped the loose red sand over that indifferent body—he had nothing to dig with—and when the lurid sun was very near the horizon he began his march again. That night stretched out interminably. The moon was very bright at first, so bright that it was hard to see his guiding