. . and when the night has weight and substance that enters into the

soul to bind a veil about it … . Then sleep took him … .

III

Thus it seemed to him, at least. Yet it was true that the lap of

water, just beyond the tent door, still beat time with his lessening

pulses when he realized that he was lying with his eyes open and that

another sound had recently introduced itself with cunning softness

between the splash and murmur of the little waves.

And, long before he understood what this sound was, it had stirred

in him the centres of pity and alarm. He listened intently, though at

first in vain, for the running blood beat all its drums too noisily in

his ears. Did it come, he wondered, from the lake, or from the woods? .

. .

Then, suddenly, with a rush and a flutter of the heart, he knew

that it was close beside him in the tent; and, when he turned over for

a better hearing, it focussed itself unmistakably not two feet away. It

was a sound of weeping; Defago upon his bed of branches was sobbing in

the darkness as though his heart would break, the blankets evidently

stuffed against his mouth to stifle it.

And his first feeling, before he could think or reflect, was the

rush of a poignant and searching tenderness. This intimate, human

sound, heard amid the desolation about them, woke pity. It was so

incongruous, so pitifully incongruous — and so vain! Tears — in this

vast and cruel wilderness: of what avail? He thought of a little child

crying in mid-Atlantic … . Then, of course, with fuller

realization, and the memory of what had gone before, came the descent

of the terror upon him, and his blood ran cold.

“Defago,” he whispered quickly, “what’s the matter?” He tried to

make his voice very gentle. “Are you in pain — unhappy — ?” There was

no reply, but the sounds ceased abruptly. He stretched his hand out and

touched him. The body did not stir.

“Are you awake?” for it occurred to him that the man was crying in

his sleep. “Are you cold?” He noticed that his feet which were

uncovered, projected beyond the mouth of the tent. He spread an extra

fold of his own blankets over them. The guide had slipped down in his

bed, and the branches seemed to have been dragged with him. He was

afraid to pull the body back again, for fear of waking him.

One or two tentative questions he ventured softly, but though he

waited for several minutes there came no reply, nor any sign of

movement. Presently he heard his regular and quiet breathing, and

putting his hand again gently on the breast, felt the steady rise and

fall beneath.

“Let me know if anything’s wrong,” he whispered, “or if I can do

anything. Wake me at once if you feel — queer.”

He hardly knew quite what to say. He lay down again, thinking and

wondering what it all meant.