But, despite our utter weariness and our wounds, we
wanted nothing--not even rest--so badly as we wanted to get away
from that awful heap of flesh and blood and the odor of it.
Besides, we did not know at what moment they might return. So I
spoke, and Harry agreed. I led the way; he followed.
But which way to turn? We wanted water, both for our dry and
burning throats and for our wounds; and rest and food. We thought
little of safety. One way seemed as likely as another, so we set
out with our noses as guides.
A man encounters very few misfortunes in this world which, later
in life, he finds himself unable to laugh at; well, for me that
endless journey was one of the few.
Every step was torture. I had bandaged the cut on my leg as well
as possible, but it continued to bleed. But it was imperative
that we should find water, and we struggled on, traversing narrow
passages and immense caverns, always in complete darkness,
stumbling over unseen rocks and encountering sharp corners of
cross passages.
It lasted I know not how many hours. Neither of us would have
survived alone. Time and again Harry sank to the ground and
refused to rise until I perforce lifted him; once we nearly came
to blows.
Pages:
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124