“Eh, mon, but yon was a bonny fight,” and he turned on his back and died.
Ned made a rough grave with his hands, and buried his companion. He took his identification-disc and his pocket-book and small valuables, with the idea of returning them to his kin if he should get through himself. He also took his water-flask, which still fortunately contained a little water. He lay concealed all day, and at night he boldly donned his turban, issued forth and struck a caravan-trail. He continued this for four days and nights hiding in the day-time and walking at night. He lived on figs and dates, and one night he raided a village and caught a fowl, which also nearly cost him his life.
On the fourth night his water gave out, and he was becoming light-headed. He stumbled on into the darkness. He was a desperate man. All the chances were against him, and he felt unmoved and fatalistic. He drew his clasp-knife and gripped it tightly in his right hand. He was hardly conscious of what he was doing, and where he was going. The moon was up, and after some hours he suddenly beheld a small oblong hut. He got it into his head that this was the hut where his German persecutor was. He crept stealthily towards it.
“I’ll kill that swine,” he muttered.
He was within less than a hundred yards of the hut, when a voice called out:
“’Alt! Who goes there?”
“It’s me,” he said. “Doan’t thee get in my way. I want to kill him. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to, I tell you. I’m going to stab him through his black heart.”
“What the hell——!”
The sentry was not called upon to use his rifle, for the turbaned figure fell forward in a swoon.