Tug waited. As the silence remained he urged the dying man.
"Yes?"
"It's no good. They—they—won't—get—it."
"What d'you mean—they won't get it?" Tug's face flushed. He felt that his promise was doubted. A promise given in all good faith, and under the spell of that dreadful thrill, which never fails to make itself felt in a promise to the dying. "I've given my word. Isn't that sufficient?"
"Sure. But——" The man broke off gasping.
After a while the struggle eased and his whispering voice became querulous.
"It's—it's—cold. The—the fire's going—out."
Tug glanced quickly at the fire. It was burning brightly. Then he remembered he had used up the last of the fuel.
From the fire he turned to the dying man again. He understood. It was the march of Death, that cold he complained of. His hard face struggled painfully for an expression of sympathy.
"Yes," he said. "I'll go and collect more wood. I—I didn't notice the fire going down. We must keep the cold out of you."