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“Can you go on?”

It seemed a brutal and foolish thing to ask of that inert skeleton, but the answer was another nod.

“Well, we’ll go on at sunset.” He put up the blanket shelter, gave the stranger another drink, and slept fitfully; this complication was going to make him run things finer than he had ever dreamed. It was—no use—worrying. As if that stopped it! . . .

The night had been a hot one, and the day was the hottest he had yet had. The sky was intolerably bright, and the heat seemed to press him down like an enormous unrelaxing hand. His throat burned, but he did not dare drink; it had been necessary to give the other almost a day’s ration in order to revive him at all. He bit the end of a wooden match, it gave some relief, but not as much as when he was fully awake. The other man lay peacefully asleep. Tony hated him. He felt a strong impulse to strangle him as he lay; it would be so easy, and such a simple solution of the difficulty. And he would feel no pain—be no worse off than beforeindeed, better. All his trouble over, whereas at present the two of them were deliberately going to choose a prolonged agony. . . .

Tony turned on his side, away from the sight of that motionless figure. Murder seemed so virtuous that he could not have trusted himself much longer.

At sunset they ate and drank a little, and went on. Neither had asked the other’s name, or volunteered his own. Names seemed unnecessary. Tony certainly never thought about his.

They walked very slowly, two or three times the man fell, but he made no complaint. Tony had to lift him to his feet. He was horribly light. He did not expend the little strength he had in speech. Tony wove his arm through his and walked on supporting him, as yet his strength had not failed, though strange fires ran through his body. He