Lygon, weapon in hand, and bleeding freely, waited for him to rise and
make for the canoe again.
Ten, twenty, fifty seconds passed. Dupont did not rise. A minute went by,
and still there was no stir, no sign. Dupont would never rise again. In
his wild rage he had burst a blood vessel on the brain.
Lygon bound up his reeking wound as best he could. He did--it calmly,
whispering to himself the while.
"I must do it. I must get there if I can. I will not be afraid to die
then," he muttered to himself. Presently he grasped an oar and paddled
feebly.
A slight wind had risen, and, as he turned the boat in to face the Forks
again, it helped to carry the canoe to the landing-place.
Lygon dragged himself out. He did not try to draw the canoe up, but began
this journey of a mile back to the tent he had left so recently. First,
step by step, leaning against trees, drawing himself forwards, a journey
as long to his determined mind as from youth to age. Would it never end?
It seemed a terrible climbing up the sides of a cliff, and, as he
struggled fainting on, all sorts of sounds were in his ears, but he
realised that the Whisperer was no longer there. The sounds he heard did
not torture, they helped his stumbling feet.
Pages:
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456