“Says we are to go to sleep till the sun rises to-morrow.”
There was a dead silence.
“Shall we go and try ourselves?” said Rifle, at last.
“If he can’t find it, we can’t,” said Norman, despondently.
“Never mind, boys,” cried Tim. “Never say die. When the provision’s done, we’ll eat one of the horses, if we can’t shoot anything. Surely we shall come across settlers some time during the next ten years; and if we don’t, I say that if black fellows can live, we who know so much better can, till we reach a settlement once more.”
“But we don’t know so much better,” said Norman, sadly. “Shanter can beat us hollow at tracking. I wouldn’t care, boys, only I seem to have poor mother’s face always before me; and it will kill her if we don’t get back.”
Another deep silence followed, for neither could trust himself to speak, till all at once from where he lay, sounding incongruous at so solemn a time, there came from the black a succession of heavy snores; and so near is laughter to tears, mirth to sadness, that the boys burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and Rifle exclaimed: “There, what’s the good of our being in the dumps. It can’t be so very bad when old Tam o’ Shanter can go to sleep like that.”
“No,” said Tim, taking his pitch from his cousin.
“Let’s have a good long rest, and then see what to-morrow brings; eh! Man?”
Norman smiled and nodded, joining in the preparations for their evening meal, and that night they all lay down as if to sleep, nothing being heard but Shanter’s deep breathing in the great solitude beneath the glittering stars, till a deep sigh escaped from Norman’s breast; and rising from his blanket couch, he stole softly out to go and kneel down beneath the great, violet, gold-spangled arch of heaven to pray for help, and that there might not come that terrible sorrow in his home—the tale to be told to future generations of how three happy, contented lads went forth into the great wilderness and left their bones there beneath some tree, or by some water-hole, bleaching in the sun.