He had lost any sense of discomfort from
the wet, and was in the numb condition of the utterly drenched. He
could not spend the night like this, so he roused himself and stood
staring, pipe in teeth, into the drizzle. The mist seemed clearer. He
was a little stupid, so he did not hear the sound of feet on stones till
they were almost on him. Then through the haze he saw a procession of
figures moving athwart the channel. They were not his countrymen, for
they walked with the stoop forward which no Englishman can ever quite
master in his hill-climbing. Lewis turned to flee, but in his numbness
of mind and body missed footing, and fell sprawling over a bank of
shingle. He scrambled to his feet only to find hands at his throat, and
himself a miserable prisoner.
The scene had shifted with a vengeance, and his first and sole impulse
was to laugh. It is possible that if the scarf of a brawny tribesman
had not been so tight across his chest he would have astonished his
captors with hysterical laughter. But the jolt as he was dragged up
hill, tied close to a horse's side, was unfavourable to merriment, and
raw despondency filled his soul. This was the end of his fine doings.
The prisoner of unknown bandits, hurried he knew not whence, a pretty
pass for an adventurer. This was the seal on his ineffectiveness. Shot
against a rock, held up to some sordid ransom, he was as impotent for
good or ill as if he had stayed at home.
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