"Where are the others now?" asked the choking Baker.
But Smith spat thickly.
"God knows."
And they walked for hours in bitter anguish.
"It's a country of black enchantment," said Smith. "I daresay it doesn't exist; perhaps we don't exist. Perhaps we are only dreaming. It's devilish hot, Baker."
And Baker nodded painfully.
"What do you talk for?" he murmured.
"Because I must," answered his pal. "And there's gold here; I smell it. but I've brought you to your death, Baker."
Poor Mandeville laid his hand on Smith's arm, and looked at him like a dumb animal in pain.
"Never mind, old man. But my name's Baker, and I'm baked."