"Drink, now, or I pour all this on the ground!"
Beaten, she extended a quivering hand. They shared the last of the
water. The man took less than a third. Then they set out again on the
endless road of pain.
Was it that same day, or the next, that the man fell and could not
rise again? The woman did not know. Something had got into her brain
and was dancing there and would not stop; something blent of sun
and glare, sand, mirage, torturing thirst. There was a little gray
scorpion, too--but no, _that_ had been crushed to a pulp by the man's
heel. Or had it not? Well--
The man! Was there a man? Where was he? Here, of course, on the baked
earth.
As she cradled his head up into her lap and drew the shelter of her
burnous over it, she became rational again. Her hot, dry hand caressed
his face. After a while he was blinking up at her.
"Bara Miyan! Violator of the salt!" he croaked, and struck at
her feebly. And after another time, she perceived that they were
staggering on and on once more.
The woman wondered what had happened to her head, now that the sun had
bored quite through. Surely that must make a difference, must it not?
A jackal barked.
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