Silvermane went lame and slackened his trot, causing Hare to rein in and dismount.  He lifted the right forefoot, the one the horse had favored, and found a stone imbedded tightly in the cloven hoof.  He pried it out with his knife and mounted again.  Wolf shone faintly far ahead, and presently he uttered a mournful cry which sent a chill to the rider’s heart.  The silence had been oppressive before; now it was terrible.  It was not a silence of life.  It had been broken suddenly by Wolf’s howl, and had closed sharply after it, without echo; it was a silence of death.

Hare took care not to fall behind Wolf again, he had no wish to hear that cry repeated.  The dog moved onward with silent feet; the horse wound after him with hoofs padded in the sand; the moon lifted and the desert gleamed; the bowlders grew larger and the lanes wider.  So the night wore on, and Hare’s eyelids grew heavy, and his whole weary body cried out for rest and forgetfulness.  He nodded until he swayed in the saddle; then righted himself, only to doze again.  The east gave birth to the morning star.  The whitening sky was the harbinger of day.  Hare could not bring himself to face the light and heat, and he stopped at a wind-worn cave under a shelving rock.  He was asleep when he rolled out on the sand-strewn floor.  Once he awoke and it was still day, for his eyes quickly shut upon the glare.  He lay sweltering till once more slumber claimed him.  The dog awakened him, with cold nose and low whine.  Another twilight had fallen.  Hare crawled out, stiff and sore, hungry and parching with thirst.  He made an attempt to eat, but it was a failure.  There was a dry burning in his throat, a dizzy feeling in his brain, and there were red flashes before his eyes.  Wolf refused meat, and Silvermane turned from the grain, and lowered his head to munch a few blades of desert grass.

Then the journey began, and the night fell black.  A cool wind blew from the west, the white stars blinked, the weird moon rose with its ghastly glow.  Huge bowlders rose before him in grotesque shapes, tombs and pillars and statues of Nature’s dead, carved by wind and sand.  But some had life in Hare’s disordered fancy.  They loomed and towered over him, and stalked abroad and peered at him with deep-set eyes.

Hare fought with all his force against this mood of gloom.  Wolf was not a phantom; he trotted forward with unerring instinct; and he would find water, and that meant life.  Silvermane, desert-steeled, would travel to the furthermost corner of this hell of sand-swept stone.  Hare tried to collect all his spirit, all his energies, but the battle seemed to be going against him.  All about him was silence, breathless silence, insupportable silence of ages.  Desert spectres danced in the darkness.  The worn-out moon gleamed golden over the worn-out waste.  Desolation lurked under the sable shadows.