The land where she dwelt swam dim before his eyes, but his courage found
strength anew. He pushed on, with a small company, in order to send back
relief for those unequal to a sally. It was the perishing to the rescue.
A bird shot, was welcome as manna from heaven, and a muddy water-hole the
sweetest of discoveries. The dew was eagerly licked from shrubs and reeds
while the sun lingered a-bed. Lips grew black, tongues swollen, eyes
wild, and the hopeless cry was: 'Water, or we die.'
The native guide schemed to lead Sir George from the others, begging,
when discovered, 'Yes, we two may be saved if we go on; the others are so
weak that they can't walk.' The master cocked his gun until the guide had
carried him back to the party. They moved Perth-ward, a stricken line of
famished men, wondering dumbly what was to happen. Did they really care?
If the leader had cheering and example, what were these set against this
final ordeal: a blistering thirst of three days and two nights? Happily a
water-hole, not bereft of all moisture, was found in the nick of time. A
few birds flew about it in the evening, but Sir George Grey's hand shook
so that he could take no aim. He headed a last desperate spurt for Perth;
the reaching of succour, or the arrival of death.
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