e and the other
seekers, and was constrained to stagger to his feet, erect in its
light. But it soon sank, and with it Clarence dropped back again to his
crouching watch. Yet he knew that the daylight was still good for an
hour, and with the withdrawal of that mystic sunset glory objects became
even more distinct and sharply defined than at any other time. And with
the merciful sheathing of that flaming sword which seemed to have swayed
between him and the vanished train, his eyes already felt a blessed
relief.

CHAPTER III

With the setting of the sun an ominous silence fell. He could hear the
low breathing of Susy, and even fancied he could hear the beating of his
own heart in that oppressive hush of all nature. For the day's march had
always been accompanied by the monotonous creaking of wheels and axles,
and even the quiet of the night encampment had been always more or less
broken by the movement of unquiet sleepers on the wagon beds, or the
breathing of the cattle. But here there was neither sound nor motion.
Susy's prattle, and even the sound of his own voice, would have broken
the benumbing spell, but it was a part of his growing self-denial now
that he refrained from waking her even by a whisper. She would awaken
soon enough to thirst and hunger, perhaps, and then what was he to do?
If that looked-for help would only come now--while she still slept. For
it was part of his boyish fancy that if he could deliver her asleep and
undemonstrative of fear and suffering, he would be less blameful, and
she less mindful of her trouble. If it did not come--but he would not
think of that yet! If she was thirsty meantime--well, it might rain, and
there was always the dew which they used to brush off the morning grass;
he would take off his shirt and catch it in that, like a shipwrecked
mariner. It would be funny, and make her laugh. For himself he would not
laugh; he felt he was getting very old and grown up in this loneliness.

It was getting darker--they should be looking into the wagons now. A new
doubt began to assail him. Ought he not, now that he was rested, make
the most of the remaining moments of daylight, and before the glow faded
from the west, when he would no longer have any bearings to guide him?
But there was always the risk of waking her!--to what? The fear of being
confronted again with HER fear and of being unable to pacify her, at
last decided him to remain. But he crept softly through the grass,