He got out of the car and scrutinized the weather; there was only the same heat, the same cloudless sky, the same merciless drought. “Must we, then, give up to despair?” he exclaimed, in agony. Joe did not open his lips. He was buried in his own thoughts, and planning the expedition he had proposed. Kennedy got up, feeling very ill, and a prey to nervous agitation. He was suffering horribly with thirst, and his swollen tongue and lips could hardly articulate a syllable. There still remained a few drops of water. Each of them knew this, and each was thinking of it, and felt himself drawn toward them; but neither of the three dared to take a step. Those three men, friends and companions as they were, fixed their haggard eyes upon each other with an instinct of ferocious longing, which was most plainly revealed in the hardy Scot, whose vigorous constitution yielded the soonest to these unnatural privations. Throughout the day he was delirious, pacing up and down, uttering hoarse cries, gnawing his clinched fists, and ready to open his veins and drink his own hot blood. “Ah!” he cried, “land of thirst! Well might you be called the land of despair!” At length he sank down in utter prostration, and his friends heard no other sound from him than the hissing of his breath between his parched and swollen lips. Toward evening, Joe had his turn of delirium. The vast expanse of sand appeared to him an immense pond, full of clear and limpid water; and, more than once, he dashed himself upon the scorching waste to drink long draughts, and rose again with his mouth clogged with hot dust. “Curses on it!” he yelled, in his madness, “it’s nothing but salt water!” Then, while Ferguson and Kennedy lay there motionless, the resistless longing came over him to drain the last few drops of water that had been kept in reserve. The natural instinct proved too strong. He dragged himself toward the car, on his knees; he glared at the bottle containing the precious fluid; he gave one wild, eager glance, seized the treasured store, and bore it to his lips. At that instant he heard a heart-rending cry close beside him—“Water! water!” It was Kennedy, who had crawled up close to him, and was begging there, upon his knees, and weeping piteously. Joe, himself in tears, gave the poor wretch the bottle, and Kennedy drained the last drop with savage haste. “Thanks!” he murmured hoarsely, but Joe did not hear him, for both alike had dropped fainting on the sand. What took place during that fearful night neither of them knew, but, on Tuesday morning, under those showers of heat which the sun poured down upon them, the unfortunate men felt their limbs gradually drying up, and when Joe attempted to rise he found it impossible.