The Master's load, heavier far, was one of the
water-skins.
This load, he knew, would rapidly lighten. As it should diminish,
faster than the woman's, he would take part of hers. Thus, as best
they could, they planned the final stage of their long agony.
Before starting again, they sat a while beside the gaunt, mangled
camel, held council of war and pledged faith again. They drank a
little of the mordant water that burned the throat and seemed in no
wise to relieve the horrible thirst that blackened their lips and
shriveled all their tissues.
"I think," the Master gasped, "we can make an hour or so before the
sun gets too bad." He squinted at the crimson and purple banderoles
of cloud through which, like the eye of a fevered Cyclops, the sun was
already glowering. Already the range of obsidian hills ahead of them,
the drifted sands all fretted with wind-waves, the whole iron plain of
the desert was quivering with heat. "Every hour counts, now. Before we
start, let us agree to certain things."
She nodded silently, crouching beside him on the sand. He drew an
emaciated arm about her and for a moment peered down into her face.
But he did not kiss her.
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