“Oh, Blake,” called Winthrope, for the American was some yards in the lead, “pull up a bit on that knoll. We’ll have to rest a while, I fancy. Miss Leslie is about pegged.”
“What’s that?” demanded Blake. “We’re not half-way yet!”
Winthrope did not reply. It was all he could do to drag the girl up on the hummock. She sank, half-fainting, upon the dry reeds, and he sat down beside her to protect her with the shade. Blake stared at the miles of swampy flats which yet lay between them and the out-jutting headland of gray rock. The base of the cliff was screened by a belt of trees; but the nearest clump of green did not look more than a mile nearer than the headland.
“Hell!” muttered Blake, despondently. “Not even a short four miles. Mush and sassiety girls!”
Though he spoke to himself, the others heard him. Miss Leslie flushed, and would have risen had not Winthrope put his hand on her arm.
“Could you not go on, and bring back a flask of water for Miss Leslie?” he asked. “By that time she will be rested.”
“No; I don’t fetch back any flasks of water. She’s going when I go, or you can come on to suit yourselves.”
“Mr. Blake, you–you won’t go, and leave me here! If you have a sister–if your mother–”
“She died of drink, and both my sisters did worse.”
“My God, man! do you mean to say you’ll abandon a helpless young girl?”