It is quite possible that Mahomed, coming over, spoiled a pretty scene; for George had some very brave words upon the tip of his tongue.
"Come," said Mahomed to Fortune. "You will sleep in the little tent. No one will disturb you."
"Good night, Mr. Jones. Don't worry; I am not afraid."
George was alone. He produced one of his precious cigars and lighted it. Then he drew over his feet one of the empty saddle-bags, wrapped his blanket round him, and sat smoking and thinking till the heat of the fire, replenished from time to time, filled him with a comfortable drowsiness; and the cigar, still smoking, slipped from his nerveless fingers, as he lay back upon the hard clay and slept. Romance is the greatest thing in the world; but for all that, a man must eat and a man must sleep.
The cold dew of dawn was the tonic that recalled him from the land of grotesque dreams. He sat up and rubbed his face briskly with his hands, drying it upon the sleeve of his coat, as hasty and as satisfying a toilet as he had ever made. There was no activity in camp; evidently they were not going to start early. The cook alone was busy. The fire was crackling, the kettle was steaming, and a pot of pleasant-smelling coffee leaned rakishly against the hot ashes. The flap to Fortune's tent was still closed. And there was Ryanne, sitting with his knees drawn up under his chin, his hands clasped about his shins, and glowering at no visible thing.
"Hello!" cried George. "Found yourself, eh?"
Ryanne eyed him without emotion.
"When and how did they get you?" George inquired.
"About three hours before they got you. Something in a glass of wine. Dope. I'd have cleaned them up but for that."
"How do you feel?"