“The Count’s order is that you have nothing,” he said.
“They’re going to starve us into giving in,” said Maurice to his brother.
“The fiends!” muttered George. “How long can you hold out?”
“Long enough to tire them, I hope. When they think of it, they’ll see that we’re no good to them dead. They haven’t found, and won’t find, the despatch; they’ll suppose I carry a verbal message; and starvation is just as much murder as shooting.”
“If they’d only give us a drink! It’s like an oven here now that the sun is getting up. My mouth is parched already: don’t people go mad from thirst?”
“Oh! it won’t come to that. They’ll give in presently.”
But the hours crawled on, and neither food nor drink was given to them. The Austrians re-entered the house. As they passed, Maurice, in a rough, husky whisper, said to the Count:
“Monsieur, will it not satisfy you that we are hungry? Is it in your instructions to torture us with thirst?”
Slavianski went by without a word. The man who had been on guard mounted the ladder, his place being taken by the fourth member of the party.
The long day drew out towards evening. The two prisoners at first lay still and tried to sleep. But the heat and stuffiness of the room, the cramping of their limbs, and their increasing thirst caused almost unendurable pain. They tossed and writhed, now and again calling in hoarse whispers for water, only to be answered with a jeer. The voices of the others came to them from above; through the window floated sounds of laughter and singing; and as the light faded they felt creeping upon them the numbness of despair.