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The path became steeper and more rugged every moment; and the
high hill air, instead of refreshing him, seemed to throw his blood
into a fever. The noise of the hill cataracts sounded like mockery
in his ears; they were all distant, and his thirst increased every
moment. Another hour passed, and he again looked down to the
flask at his side; it was half empty, but there was much more than
three drops in it. He stopped to open it, and again, as he did so,
something moved in the path above him. It was a fair child,
stretched nearly lifeless on the rock, its breast heaving with thirst,
its eyes closed, and its lips parched and burning. Hans eyed it
deliberately, drank, and passed on. And a dark gray cloud came
over the sun, and long, snake-like shadows crept up along the mountain
sides. Hans struggled on. The sun was sinking, but its descent
seemed to bring no coolness; the leaden weight of the dead air
pressed upon his brow and heart, but the goal was near. He saw
the cataract of the Golden River springing from the hillside, scarcely
five hundred feet above him.


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