“You little ass,” said poor Jock, in the petulant inconsistency of his distress; “it is not come to that yet.”
Armine did not answer at once. He was kneeling against the rock, and a strange thrill came over Jock, forbidding him again to say—“It was not come to that,” but a shoot of aching pain in his ankle presently drew forth an exclamation.
Armine again offered to rub it for him, and the two arranged themselves for this purpose, the curtain of damp woolliness seeming to thicken on them. There was a moon somewhere, and the darkness was not total, but the dreariness and isolation were the more felt from the absence of all outlines being manifest. They even lost sight of their own hands if they stretched out their arms, and their light summer garments were already saturated with damp and would soon freeze. No part of their bodies was free from that deadly chill save where they could press against one another.
They were brave boys. Jock had collected himself again, and for some time they kept up a show of mirth in the shakings and buffetings they bestowed on one another, but they began to grow too stiff and spent to pursue this discipline. Armine thought that the night must be nearly over, and Jock tried to see his watch, but decided that he could not, because he could not bear to believe how far it was from day.
Armine was drowsily rubbing the ankle, mechanically murmuring something to himself. Jock shook him, saying—
“Take care, don’t doze off. What are you mumbling about leisure?”
“O tarry thou the Lord’s leisure. Be strong and—Was I saying it aloud?” he broke off with a start.
“Yes; go on.”
Armine finished the verse, and Jock commented—
“Comfort thine heart. Does the little chap mean it in a fix like this?”