He saw it all; it meant the end. Had there been a cool, moist night even to look forward to, they might have lived till another day, but there were many hours of pitiless sunshine yet in the hottest time when the glare was right along the gap.
“It is the end,” he said, half-aloud. “Roy, lad, I should like to shake hands first with Terry.”
He took a step or two toward where the midshipman lay, but had to snatch at the rock to save himself, and he gave up with a groan.
“I do it in my heart,” he said. “Come and bid Mr Dallas good-bye.”
“Are—are we dying, Belt?” whispered Roylance, and his voice sounded very strange.
“Yes; it can’t be long. But I hope we shall go to sleep first and wake no more.”
He staggered in at the open doorway, for the canvas had been drawn aside, and stood gazing down at the lieutenant, who feebly raised his hand.
Roylance remained there, leaning against the rough entrance, and on a case sat Pan, with his head resting against the wall and his eyes half-closed.
That grip of the hand was all that passed, save a long, earnest look of the eyes, and an hour must have passed over them in the almost insupportable heat. There was not a breath of air, and the poor fellows felt as if they were being literally scorched up, and that before long it would be impossible to breathe.
They had silently said good-bye, and Syd sat now on the floor with his hand in Mr Dallas’s, thinking of his father, and of how he would come some time and find him lying there dead, and know by the work about that he had done his duty.