He succeeded in speaking the words aloud, although his voice was weak and faint. The sound startled him, and, with a mighty effort, he lifted himself to one elbow.
“Harry!” he panted, thickly—“Harry, wake up!”
Still no stir.
“Harry, Harry, are you asleep?”
Rattleton remained motionless.
Holding himself thus, Frank watched, but he could not see that the bosom of his friend rose and fell at all—he could not see that Harry breathed.
Surely that pallid face was not the face of a living person! It had the stamp of death upon it!
“Merciful goodness!” whispered Frank, as he dragged himself nearer. “I know—I am sure some frightful thing has happened to us! But I do not seem to remember.”
He paused and stared about. Sunset light was on the snow-capped peaks of the Sierras, and away up there they were dazzling to the eye; but there were deep shadows below—black shadows in the heart of Frank Merriwell.
“The mountains!” he faintly murmured—“they are all around us! This is not the desert—no, no! We were not overcome by hunger and thirst. Something—something else struck us down!”