The sunburst of dawn woke them from a night of restless sleep. Roger sat up sleepily blinking against the garish rays of the rising sun, and conscious of an indefinite sense of discomfort. Sleepily he stumbled to his feet, seeking a drink of water, and then, fully awakened, he understood. His tongue was hot and dry and his swollen throat was crying for a drink of the brackish water which he must not touch.
"Hell!" said Higgins hoarsely as he awoke and felt his throat. "It's getting us quick. This heat just boils the moisture out of you. Do your eyes hurt yet?"
"No."
"Mine do. I ate more of that meat than you did."
They found a sweet-bay bush near by and chewed the fragrant leaves for the moisture that was in them.
"I'll climb that tree and have another look round," said Roger.
"All right. While you're there I'll try out the mats I made last night."
They looked together up toward the top of the dead cypress, and Higgins swore. The buzzards were still waiting.
Roger climbed to the branch which offered a perch high up on the tree trunk and once more searched the landscape for a sign of fresh water or a solid path through the mud. The scene below him now resembled nothing so much as a painter's palette streaked and splashed with all the bright primary colors and all their possible hues, shades and variations.
The black mud field was livid with a coating of most somber purple shot with angry streaks of carmine and orange. On the foliage of the tiny islands which dotted the expanse the sun was rosy. To the westward the matted mass of the mangrove swamp seemed to be sheathed with a liquid coat of gold. The mists of morning were rising above the swamp and upon it the dawn played its full palette of colors with delicate rainbow effect. Above the mists the sky was flushed and hectic; and in the east the garishness of the sunburst was like the clang of a brazen gong.