when at last I fell into a troubled doze, it was with my head wrapped in one of the pack-covers. Over the rest of that night of misery I draw a veil. Transome smoked many pipes, I believe. And when the grey dawn stole in at the one small window, we looked at each other. I was much the worst, quite unrecognizable and could hardly see, but though Transome’s hands were swollen they had spared his face. How I wished I could have smoked all night! Hurriedly I collected the charred embers together, and made some cocoa. “Let us flee,” I said, “while there is any of us left.” Transome vowed he would report the state of this “Traveller’s Rest” at head-quarters on our return; but, after all, no one, except it may be an odd cattle-drover, ever sleeps there—the settlers know it too well.
We set out into a world which was still wrapped in that weird white mist. Only a few yards of track were visible ahead—always ascending through the trees. But we were gradually getting to the top of a 2,000 foot saddle—it grew brighter every minute, and as we left the night clouds below, we knew that up among the peaks there would be a cloudless sunrise:
“Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And bosom beating with a heart renew’d.
Thy cheek begins to redden thro’ the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosen’d manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.”
