"I shall be able to start to-morrow," he declared; "and we can do all right till then."
There followed a day that Gray found very hard to bear. The moments seemed to lengthen themselves out into hours, the hours into weeks—the day seemed as if it would never end. It passed at last, and the night came—a lovely moonlight night like the last.
Gray had not slept during the day, and he hardly expected to sleep during the night; he felt too feverishly eager for the morning. But sometime after midnight he fell into a troubled, restless slumber. It was still bright moonlight when he awoke; the east showed no sign of dawn.
He woke suddenly with a strange sense of terror upon him. He started up, and looked suspiciously round. The horse was there, not far from the spot where he had last seen it, but Lumley was no longer lying against the hillock, and in his first hasty glance Gray failed to find him. But a rough laugh broke on his ear.
"Don't go off your head with fright, partner," called out Lumley, who was crouching on the ground close beside the horse. "I've just been tryin' my strength a bit. We can start at sunrise, if you like."
Gray walked slowly across to him.
"How did you manage to get here?" he said wonderingly.
Lumley had got hold of the bridle of the horse, but he let it go as Gray approached.
"Crawled on my hands and feet," he said. "And a pretty hard bit of work it's been."
Gray could see he was much exhausted. His face was deathly pale, and there were great drops of sweat upon it, brought there by the pain he had gone through. He had been trying to mount the horse by his unaided efforts, and had given up the attempt in despair just before Gray woke. But he did not tell Gray this, and Gray did not guess it.