“Come, David,” said my father; “you have done your utmost for this miserable man. We risk our own lives by further delay.”
In spite, therefore, of the entreaties of the Spaniard, I again mounted my horse. It just then occurred to me that if he had his pistols, he might defend himself against any wild beasts. On my offering to load them for him, he told me that he had thrown them away. So I gave him one of my own, with a little ammunition, that he might reload it, if required. He seized the weapon eagerly as I presented it.
“Then you will not stay to help me, or carry me with you!” he exclaimed fiercely as I rode off. “You will not!—then take that;” and levelling at me the pistol which I had just given, he fired. The ball just grazed my side, but did no further mischief.
“The poor wretch is delirious with fear,” observed my father, when he found that I was uninjured. “Let us ride on.”
On we rode, but though we made some progress, the oasis was still in appearance as far off as when first seen. The sun was sinking rapidly—it reached the horizon—it disappeared; the short twilight changed into the obscurity of night; and the beacon by which we had hitherto directed our course was no longer to be seen. The stars, however, shone brightly forth; and I had marked one which appeared just above the clump of trees. By that we now steered, though, I had too soon strong proof, the instinct of our horses would have led them towards the oasis without our guidance. Although it was night, the heat was intense; our throats were dry, our lips were parched, and we were experiencing all the terrible sensations of intolerable thirst. We had kept the remnant of the water for a last resource, in case we should not reach the fountain.
I think that for nearly another hour we had ridden on, my father not having spoken a word all that time, when to my horror, without any warning, he fell heavily from his horse. His hands had let go the reins, and the animal, relieved of his burden, set off towards the oasis. I threw myself from my horse. To lift him up and to pour some water down his throat was the work of a moment. It instantly restored him to consciousness. He appeared to have suffered no injury from his fall. While I was thus engaged, my horse escaped from me and set off after his companion. So engrossed, however, was I in tending my father, that I scarcely noticed the occurrence. It was, of course, utterly hopeless to attempt to recover the animals, and thus were we two left in the middle of the desert without a prospect of escaping.
O the horrors of that night! They can never be obliterated from my memory. At first I thought of attempting to reach the oasis by walking; but my father, though having sufficient strength to sit up, and, had he not lost his horse, to ride, felt himself utterly unable to accomplish the distance on foot. I had bitterly, indeed, to regret my momentary carelessness in allowing my horse to escape from me. It might have been the cause of my father’s and my destruction. I have often since thought, from being for one instant only off our guard, how much misery and ruin may occur—how much wickedness and suffering may be the result!
The air was still very sultry, and even the sand, on which we rested, was very hot. Our last drop of water was consumed. My father did not know it, but I had given it to him. I had begun to suffer dreadfully from thirst. My throat seemed lined with a coating like the face of a file, and my lips were hard and cracked; while the skin, from the drying effects of the sun, the wind, and the sand, was peeling off my face. My father did not feel so much pain as I did; but my strength, I fancied, had in no way failed me, and I thought that, if I had kept my horse, I could easily have walked by his side till we reached the fountain we expected to find. We sat for some time without speaking. The stars were shining in undimmed brilliancy above our heads from the dark blue sky; not a breath of air was stirring, not a sound was heard. I never endured a silence so profound, so solemn, and so painful. For a time I almost fancied that I had become deaf. At length my father’s voice, which sounded deep and hollow, convinced me of the contrary.
“David,” he said, “I must not let you, my boy, remain here to die. You may still be able during the night to reach the oasis, and the cool of the morning will bring you renewed strength. If you reach it in safety, you are certain to find our horses there, and you can return with them and the flasks full of water to me. I feel quite certain that I can hold out till then.”
I scarcely knew what to answer my father. Though I thought that I might possibly reach the oasis, I saw the great difficulty there would be in again finding him, without any means in that vast plain of marking his position; and I felt far from confident that his strength would endure till my return.