The effort was too much. The giddiness from which he was suffering mastered him, and he fell over sidewise on to the fast-heating sand, but with his left foot fast in the stirrup-iron, while the pony kept on a few feet before stopping short and turning to gaze down in his rider’s face.
“Chris! Chris!” cried Ned, checking his pony as he closed up, while the mule went tramping on with its heavy load as if nothing whatever was the matter.
To the last speaker’s wonder and horror, as the excitement of his comrade’s mishap drove his own sufferings into the background, Chris raised himself a little and extricated his foot from the stirrup, before hauling himself up by the leather, to stand steadying himself by the saddle, laughing the while what sounded to Ned like a wild, hysterical laugh that was to be his last.
“Chris!” he cried.
“It’s all right,” gasped the boy, struggling to grow calm. “That tumble has knocked the faintness out of me. I know now—what’s—what’s the matter with us both.”
“Chris!” rang out again.
“I know, I tell you—I felt a little while ago—oh, so ill, as if something was coming on and we were both going to die. But I know now. Can’t you see, Ned?”
There was no answer.
“Then I’ll tell you. What did you have to eat yesterday?”
“Eat? I couldn’t eat, only drink that little drop of water.”