The stars
were shining in undimmed brilliancy above our heads from the dark blue
sky; not a breath of air was stirring, not a sound was heard. I never
endured a silence so profound, so solemn, and so painful. For a time I
almost fancied that I had become deaf. At length my father's voice,
which sounded deep and hollow, convinced me of the contrary.

"David," he said, "I must not let you, my boy, remain here to die. You
may still be able during the night to reach the oasis, and the cool of
the morning will bring you renewed strength. If you reach it in safety,
you are certain to find our horses there, and you can return with them
and the flasks full of water to me. I feel quite certain that I can
hold out till then."

I scarcely knew what to answer my father. Though I thought that I might
possibly reach the oasis, I saw the great difficulty there would be in
again finding him, without any means in that vast plain of marking his
position; and I felt far from confident that his strength would endure
till my return.

"No, father," I answered; "I cannot leave you now. I should not find
you again, so that my going would not preserve you; and I will therefore
stay and share your fate."

I need not mention all the arguments my father used to persuade me to
leave him, and how I entreated him to allow me to remain. At last he
consented that I should stay with him till just before daybreak, which
is in that, as in most climates, the coolest time generally of the
twenty-four hours. He then proposed that I should plant my whip, with a
piece of handkerchief tied to the end of it, on the top of the highest
rock or piece of ground I should find near, to serve as a mark for his
position, should he not by that time have sufficiently recovered his
strength to set out with me.

"Perhaps I may be able to accompany you part of the way, and then you
will have a less distance to return to look for me," he observed.

As he spoke, however, I could not help remarking, with grief, that there
was a hollow tone in his voice which betokened failing strength, while
his words were uttered with pain and difficulty. I could too well judge
of his sensations by my own; and gladly would I have given the room full
of gold which the unfortunate Inca, Atahualpa, promised to the greedy
Spaniards, for a flask of water to quench the burning thirst which was
consuming us.

Hour after hour passed away, as we sat side by side on the sand. We
spo