There was no answer.
The fourth man said nothing.
There was a whir in the air ... closer ... closer; a roar that surged at the ear drums; a terrific crash near at hand; a tremble of the earth like a shuddering sob.
The first man echoed the sob:
"Carry on! Carry on! I can't carry on. Not for hours. I've been running for two days. I can't even sleep. My Gawd!"
"No good of carrying on for a bit," snapped the third man. "There's no place to carry on to. They seem to be all around us."
"That's the first one that's come near us," said the Frenchman. "Maybe it's only—what do you call it?—a straggler."
"Like us," said the third man.
A flare, afar off, hung and dropped. Nebulous, ghostlike, a faint shimmer lay upon the thicket. It endured for but a moment. Three men, huddled against the tree trunks, torn, ragged and dishevelled men, stared into each others' faces. A fourth man lay outstretched, motionless, at full length upon the ground, as though he were asleep or dead; his face was hidden because it was pillowed on the earth.
"Well, I'm damned!" said the third man, and whistled softly under his breath.