In vain, in vain. We can go no farther, and once more take shelter beneath our robes of skin. Ossian and Bruce creep partly between us.
We talk no more now, but determinedly try to keep awake.
A whole hour must have passed in this way. I am not on the plain now, it seems to me. I am wandering with my brother over the moorland at home, where when boys we met the convict. But the moor is strangely changed; it is all a-glimmer with radiant light. Every bush, branch, twig, and twiglet seem formed of coloured light or flame; the scene is gorgeous, enchanting.
Suddenly, all is dark. My brother is wrenched away from my grasp, and—I awake shrieking. I awake to find myself lying on the log-house floor on a couch of guanaco skins.
My brother is safe, and even the dogs.
In an hour’s time we are both well enough to get up and refresh ourselves with a cup of Pedro’s yerba maté.
But our escape had been little short of miraculous. We had wandered a long distance out of the track, for the wind had gone round, and were entirely buried when found, only faithful Ossian and Bruce’s voices had been heard high above the roaring storm.
We owed our lives to them.