With their present condition as an earnest of what
was yet to come, what hope had any that even one of them would live to
behold the sparkle of the distant Red Sea? Even though unmolested by
pursuit from Jannati Shahr or by attack from any wandering tribes of
the Black Tent People, what hope could there be?
Gradually some coherence of thought returned to the Master. He sat up,
painfully, and blinked with reddened eyes at the woman. She was lying
beside her water-bag, seemingly asleep. The Master's face drew into
lines of anguish as he looked at her.
With bruised fingers he loosened the thong of his own water-bag, and
tore still another strip from his remnant of shirt. He poured a little
of the precious water on to this rag, lashed the water-sack tight
again, and with the warm, wet rag bathed the woman's face, brow, and
throat.
Her closed lids did not open. No one paid any attention. No one
even stirred. The cloth grew dry, almost at once, as the thirsty air
absorbed its moisture. The Master pocketed it. Elbows on knees, head
between hands, he sat there pondering.
In thought he was living over again the incredible events of the
past hours, as they had been presented to his own experience.
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