The men ceased muttering, and came as beaten dogs come at the call of their master, seized the tent and put it up.
But Berselius still shook his head. He knew these people, their treachery, and their unutterable heartlessness.
“How far are we from the river now?” asked Adams, that night, as they sat by the fire, for which the corporal by some miracle of savagery had found sufficient dry fuel in the reeking woods around them.
“Another two days’ march,” replied Berselius, “I trust that we shall reach it.”
“Oh, we’ll get there,” said Adams, “and shall I tell you why? Well, we’ll get there just because of that relic I am carrying. God has given me it to take to Europe. To take to Europe and show to men that they may see the devilment of this place, and the work of Satan that is being carried out here.”
Berselius bowed his head.
“Perhaps you are right,” said he, at last, slowly and thoughtfully.
Adams said no more. The great change in his companion stood as a barrier between him and the loathing he would have felt if Berselius had been still himself.
The great man had fallen, and was now very low. That vision of him in his madness by the Silent Pools had placed him forever on a plane above others. God had dealt with this man very visibly, and the hand of God was still upon him.
Next day they resumed their journey. The soldiers were cheerful and seemed to have forgotten all about their grievance, but Berselius felt more uneasy than ever. He knew these people, and that nothing could move them to mirth and joy that was not allied to devilment, or treachery, or death.