He sat a little longer, then rose to go. He fancied that there was a shade less of restlessness about this man, whom he knew to be suffering what no other man in the tent could have endured in silence.
In response to a sign he stooped to catch a few, low-spoken words.
"By-and-bye," said Private Ford, with husky self-assurance, "when it's dark—or only moonlight—a man will creep out between the lines and crawl down to the river, to get some water for—the children."
He was wandering again, Durant saw; and his pity mounted high.
"Perhaps, poor fellow; perhaps," he answered gently.
As he went away he heard again the droning, unconscious voice:
"And power was given unto him to scorch men with fire. And men were scorched—with great heat. Eh, Sammy? Is that water you have there? Quick! Give me—what? There is none? Then why the—why the—" There came an abrupt pause; then a brief, dry chuckle that was like the crackling of flame through dead twigs. "Ah, I forgot. I mustn't curse. I've got to set the example to these children. But, O God, the heat and the flies!"
Durant wondered if after all it had been a kindness to call back the passing spirit that had begun to forget.
Slowly the scorching day wore away, till evening descended in a blaze of gorgeous colouring upon the desolate African wilderness and the band of men that had been surrounded and cut off by a wily enemy.