A few useless minutes we
wasted, searching for a soft spot to lie on--moss, reeds,
anything. We found none, of course; but even the hard, unyielding
rock was grateful to our exhausted bodies. We lay side by side,
using our ponchos for pillows; our clothing at least was dry.
I do not know how long I slept, but it seemed to me that I had
barely dozed off when I was awakened by something--what?
There was no sound to my strained ears. I sat up, gazing
intently into the darkness, shuddering without apparent reason.
Then I reflected that nothing is dangerous to a man who faces
death, and I laughed aloud--then trembled at the sound of my own
voice. Harry was in sound sleep beside me; his regular breathing
told of its depth.
Again I lay down, but I could not sleep. Some instinct, long
forgotten, quivered within me, telling me that we were no longer
alone. And soon my ear justified it.
At first it was not a sound, but the mere shadow of one. It was
rhythmic, low, beating like a pulse. What could it be? Again I
sat up, listening and peering into the darkness. And this time I
was not mistaken--there was a sound, rustling, sibilant.
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