“Do you think it will stand till we get there?” he asked.

Lewis smiled.  The house was leaning in three directions.  The weight of its tiled roof threatened at any moment to crush the long-suffering walls to the ground.  At one corner stood a great earthen jar, and beside the jar an old hag.  She held a gourd to her lips.  On some straw in the shade of the eaves was a setting hen.

“Auntie,” called Lewis, “we thirst.  Give us water.”

The old woman turned and stared at them.  Her face, all but her eyes, was as dilapidated as her house.  Her black eyes, brilliant and piercing, shone out of the ruin.

“I have no water for thee to drink, my pretty son,” she answered.

“Shameless one!” cried Lewis.  “Dost thou drink thyself and deny the traveler?”

“Eh, eh!” cackled the old woman.  “Thou wouldst share my gourd?  Then drink, for thy tongue is not so pretty as thy face.”  She held up the gourd to Lewis in both her hands.  He took it from her and passed it to the stranger.

The stranger made a grimace, but sipped the water.  Then he flung gourd and water to the ground with; half an oath.

“Bah!” he said to Lewis.  “It is salt.”

“Salt!” cried Lewis.  “But she drank of it.  I saw her drink.”

“Yes,” said the stranger; “she’s got an alkalified stomach.  Let those who hanker after immortality look upon this woman.  She will never die.”

The old hag laughed.

“Ah, shameless one, eh?” she mumbled. “’Tis the young one should have tasted, but no matter, for the son is the spit of the father.”

“Auntie,” said Lewis, smiling, “give us of thy shade.”

“Willingly, my pretty son, for thou hast smiled.”

They dismounted.  The stranger and Lewis entered the house.

“Here,” cried the old woman, “sit here; for when the house falls, the weight will go yonder.”

Lewis explained to the stranger.  He glanced at the old woman.

“Old Immortality has brains,” he said.  “Might have known it, with those eyes.”

They sat on the floor of beaten earth.  The old woman went out.  Through the gaps in the walls Lewis saw her build a fire and put a pot of the brackish water on to boil.  Then he saw her drag the setting hen from her nest and wring its neck.  He jumped up and rushed out.

“What are you doing?” he cried.  “Why kill a setting hen?”

“Aye,” said the old woman, “it is a pity, for she is the last chicken in the world.”

Lewis and the stranger were hungry.  Night was falling.  There was no sign of their belated pack-train.  When boiling had done its utmost, they ate the last chicken on earth.  Before they had finished, a child, pitifully thin, came in, bearing on her head a small jar of water.

“Now drink,” said the old woman, “for this water came from the river, twelve miles away.”

They drank, then the stranger set his helmet on the floor for a pillow, laid his head upon it, and slept.  Lewis sat beside him.  The child had curled up in a corner.  The guide was snoring outside.  In the doorway the old woman crouched and crooned.