They both fell back a trifle, letting their gaze sweep the landscape below, which was unfolding in theatrical unreality. At that moment the sun came out, flooding the countryside with a flash of truant splendor. To the south nestled the cluster of hospital buildings, each sending out thin gray lines of smoke. Moving up the valley, hugging the sinuous banks of the river, a train nosed its impudent way.
"When shall we be leaving for good?" Monet asked, suddenly.
Fred let out a deep breath. "The first time it really clears!"
Monet rested his hand upon Fred's shoulder. "If we go east we'll have to cross the river."
"We'll follow the railroad track north for a mile or two. There's a crossing near Pritchard's. I saw it on the day we went after the tree."
The train pulled into the station and was whistling on its way again. The hospital automobile swung toward the grounds. Suddenly the sun was snuffed out again; it grew dark and lowering.
"We had better be on our way," Fred said, warningly. "It's going to pour in less than no time."
For a moment a silence fell between them, succeeded by an outburst from Monet.
"Let's keep on!" he cried, harshly. "Let's keep right on going! I don't want to go back. I won't, I tell you! I won't!"
Fred took him by the shoulders … he was trembling violently. "Come … come! We can't do that, you know!… We haven't provisions or proper clothing. And the rain, my boy! We'd die of exposure … or … worse!"