III
Thus, it seemed to him, at least. Yet it was true that the lap of thewater, just beyond the tent door, still beat time with his lesseningpulses when he realized that he was lying with his eyes open and thatanother sound had recently introduced itself with cunning softnessbetween the splash and murmur of the little waves.
And, long before he understood what this sound was, it had stirred inhim the centers of pity and alarm. He listened intently, though at firstin vain, for the running blood beat all its drums too noisily in hisears. 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 itwas close beside him in the tent; and, when he turned over for a betterhearing, it focused itself unmistakably not two feet away. It was asound of weeping; Defago upon his bed of branches was sobbing in thedarkness as though his heart would break, the blankets evidently stuffedagainst his mouth to stifle it.
And his first feeling, before he could think or reflect, was the rush ofa poignant and searching tenderness. This intimate, human sound, heardamid the desolation about them, woke pity. It was so incongruous, sopitifully incongruous--and so vain! Tears--in this vast and cruelwilderness: of what avail? He thought of a little child crying inmid-Atlantic.... Then, of course, with fuller realization, and thememory of what had gone before, came the descent of the terror upon him,and his blood ran cold.
"Defago," he whispered quickly, "what's the matter?" He tried to makehis voice very gentle. "Are you in pain--unhappy--?" There was no reply,but the sounds ceased abruptly. He stretched his hand out and touchedhim. The body did not stir.
"Are you awake?" for it occurred to him that the man was crying in hissleep. "Are you cold?" He noticed that his feet, which were uncovered,projected beyond the mouth of the tent. He spread an extra fold of hisown blankets over them. The guide had slipped down in his bed, and thebranches seemed to have been dragged with him. He was afraid to pull thebody back again, for fear of waking him.
One or two tentative questions he ventured softly, but though he waitedfor several minutes there came no reply, nor any sign of movement.Presently he heard his regular and quiet breathing, and putting his handagain gently on the breast, felt the steady rise and fall beneath.
"Let me know if anything's wrong," he whispered, "or if I can doanything. Wake me at once if you feel--queer."
He hardly knew what to say. He lay down again, thinking and wonderingwhat it all meant. Defago, of course, had been crying in his sleep. Somedream or other had afflicted him. Yet never in his life would he forgetthat pitiful sound of sobbing, and the feeling that the whole awfulwilderness of woods listened....
His own mind busied itself for a long time with the recent events, ofwhich _this_ took its mysterious place as one, and though his reasonsuccessfully argued away all unwelcome suggestions, a sensation ofuneasiness remained, resisting ejection, very deep-seated--peculiarbeyond ordinary.