As soon as the deep darkness preceding the dawn began to lighten, he aroused his slumbering companion.
"You can walk better now than in the heat of the day," he said; "poor child, I wish I had food to offer you."
"I feel much rested now, sir; and perhaps we shall find something to kill before many miles."
She spoke cheerfully, and, for a while, felt so; but as the sun came slowly up, and rose higher and higher in the heavens—as the sand grew hot under her blistered feet, and the sky hot on her aching head—as hour after hour rolled away and no stream met her feverish gaze—as her lips began to parch with thirst and her frame to faint with hunger—then she could no longer conceal from her companion how terribly exhausted she was. Several times he took her in his arms and carried her a long ways, for he did not dare to pause to give her the needed rest—every moment which kept them from the expected stream and possible succor took away from their faint hopes of relief.
Nat Wolfe's own powerful frame was severely tried; he had staggered more than once, for it will be remembered that he had but scanty fare for a day or two before his rescue of Elizabeth, and the torture of thirst was upon him too.
"Go on—oh, do go on and leave me here, I can not take another step, and you must not kill yourself by staying to see me die. If you were not hindered by me you could go so much faster," pleaded the young girl, sinking at last under the meridian heat.
"Leave you, Elizabeth?" said Nat, for the first time using her name in addressing her; and once more he swung her into his arms, though her light form seemed made of iron, so weak was he growing. "Look ahead! don't you see trees? don't you see the glimmer of water? I'm sure we're not a mile from the spot."
"Yes!" she cried, in a strange, excited voice, "I see trees and water—a lovely lake—oh, so beautiful! like those of my childhood, and apples on the trees! cool, delicious apples and peaches. Walk faster, Nat, to the cool, cool water—" her voice sunk to a whisper, her head drooped—she had fainted even while longing for the beautiful mirage which reached her strained and feverish vision.
Filled with anguish, almost cursing fate, Nat staggered on. He threw away his rifle—his precious rifle, next in rank to his lost Kit Carson in his affections—for he could no longer be burdened by it. On—on—feeling that water, at least, could not be far away—until, finally, he, too, was compelled to rest. He knew very well that the rest might be fatal to both—but nature refused to be longer overtasked. Sinking upon the ground, he gazed in despair upon the fair face drooping back over his arm, the long tresses of dark hair sweeping about it, the breath scarcely fluttering over the parched, parted lips. To think that he had not even a drop of water with which to stay that departing soul! He was almost mad with the bitterness of the truth. He chafed the limp hands, he fanned the pale brow.
"At least we will die together," he murmured, fixing his lips upon hers with the first, last kiss of love and despair, of life and death. As if it called back her fluttering senses, she opened her eyes and smiled upon him—a dreamy smile, yet a smile, he was sure of it, full of love such as filled his own heart.