But still he took no chances, using only pieces that were cracked with
age, retaining not the slightest trace of moisture. Then trying to
forget his parched throat and empty stomach, he would lie yet again in
the sand, sleep remaining the single greatest need.
But as night fell again on the interceding day---even as Mary watched
the Englishman ride off---he woke for the last time, feeling troubled
and restless. So dry had his throat become that each involuntary
swallow brought with it a sharp and brittle pain. His mouth felt lined
with parchment, and he was dizzy and weak from hunger. He knew that
whatever the risks, he could no longer remain where he was, but must
find food and drink. And this meant people, of whom life had made him
so mistrustful.
His clothes were dry, nearly scorched. These he had stolen as he fled
across the countryside with his companion, who along with himself had
broken early from the rest. But the fit of them was bad, and their
look on him plainly suspicious.
As he dressed, then climbed carefully up to the narrow opening, he
felt a deep trepidation he could not suppress.
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