"How long have I slept?" asked Guy in a hoarse whisper.
Melton turned in astonishment as though frightened by the sound of a human voice.
"I don't know," he said, speaking with a great effort. "Hours, Chutney, hours. A day and a night must have passed since I cracked that fellow there on the head. I hoped you would never wake. This is like dying a thousand times over. It won't last long now. A few hours at the most—and then—"
"But tell me," interrupted Guy, "the rest, are they—are they——?"
"Dead?" said Melton. "No, I think not. Very near the end, though. They can't move. They can't even reach the edge of the raft to drink. Water has kept me up a little."
Crawling inch by inch, he drew himself beside Guy and propped his back against the canoe. They sat side by side, too exhausted to speak, mercifully indifferent to their fate.
It is doubtful if they realized their position. The last stages of starvation had blunted their sensibilities, thrown a veil over their reasoning faculties.
Presently Guy observed that the raft had entered upon a most turbulent stretch of water. At frequent intervals he heard dimly the hoarse roar of rapids and felt the logs quiver and tremble as they struck the rocks. The shores appeared almost close enough to touch as they whirled past with a speed that made him close his eyes with dizziness, and the jagged roof seemed about to fall and crush him.
He saw these things as a man sees in a dream. He could no longer reason over them or draw conclusions from the facts. The increasing roar of the water, the cumulative force of the current, told him dimly that a crisis was approaching.
So they drifted on, lost to all passage of time. Presently the last embers of the fire expired with a hiss as a dash of spray was flung on them, and all was dark.