الفصل الفصل 3 · 第3章

Thus, it seemed to him, at least. Yet it was true that the lap of the

water, just beyond the tent door, still beat time with his lessening

pulses when he realized that he was lying with his eyes open and that

another sound had recently introduced itself with cunning softness

between the splash and murmur of the little waves.

And, long before he understood what this sound was, it had stirred in

him the centers of pity and alarm. He listened intently, though at first

in vain, for the running blood beat all its drums too noisily in his

ears. Did it come, he wondered, from the lake, or from the woods?...

Then, suddenly, with a rush and a flutter of the heart, he knew that it

was close beside him in the tent; and, when he turned over for a better

hearing, it focused itself unmistakably not two feet away. It was a

sound of weeping; Défago upon his bed of branches was sobbing in the

darkness as though his heart would break, the blankets evidently stuffed

against his mouth to stifle it.

And his first feeling, before he could think or reflect, was the rush of

a poignant and searching tenderness. This intimate, human sound, heard

amid the desolation about them, woke pity. It was so incongruous, so

pitifully incongruous--and so vain! Tears--in this vast and cruel

wilderness: of what avail? He thought of a little child crying in

mid-Atlantic.... Then, of course, with fuller realization, and the

memory of what had gone before, came the descent of the terror upon him,

and his blood ran cold.

"Défago," he whispered quickly, "what's the matter?" He tried to make

his voice very gentle. "Are you in pain--unhappy--?" There was no reply,

but the sounds ceased abruptly. He stretched his hand out and touched

him. The body did not stir.

"Are you awake?" for it occurred to him that the man was crying in his

sleep. "Are you cold?" He noticed that his feet, which were uncovered,

projected beyond the mouth of the tent. He spread an extra fold of his

own blankets over them. The guide had slipped down in his bed, and the

branches seemed to have been dragged with him. He was afraid to pull the

body back again, for fear of waking him.

One or two tentative questions he ventured softly, but though he waited

for several minutes there came no reply, nor any sign of movement.

Presently he heard his regular and quiet breathing, and putting his hand

again gently on the breast, felt the steady rise and fall beneath.

"Let me know if anything's wrong," he whispered, "or if I can do

anything. Wake me at once if you feel--queer."

He hardly knew what to say. He lay down again, thinking and wondering

what it all meant. Défago, of course, had been crying in his sleep. Some

dream or other had afflicted him. Yet never in his life would he forget

that pitiful sound of sobbing, and the feeling that the whole awful

wilderness of woods listened....

His own mind busied itself for a long time with the recent events, of

which _this_ took its mysterious place as one, and though his reason

successfully argued away all unwelcome suggestions, a sensation of

uneasiness remained, resisting ejection, very deep-seated--peculiar

beyond ordinary.