Our situation was indeed desperate. With our every movement
spied upon, surrounded by four solid walls of stone, and beyond
them ten thousand savage brutes waiting to tear us to
pieces--what wildest fancy could indulge in hope?
Then, glancing up, my eye was arrested by the heap under the
cover in the corner. There, in the person of the Inca king, lay
our only advantage. But how could we use it?
Desiree's voice came in the calm tones of despair:
"We are lost."
Harry crossed to her and took her in his arms.
"I thank Heaven," he said, "that you are with us." Then he
turned to me: "I believe it is for the best, Paul. There never
was a chance for us; we may as well say it now. And it is better
to die here, together, than--the other way."
I smiled at his philosophy, knowing its source. It came not from
his own head, but from Desiree's arms. But it was truth.
We sat silent. The thing was beyond discussion; too elemental to
need speech for its explanation or understanding. I believe it
was not despair that kept back our words, but merely the dumb
realization that where all hope is gone words are useless--worse,
a mockery.
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