After a little he observed that Blake’s head was drooping upon his chest, and that his breathing had become deeper.  His prisoner, he believed, was asleep.  And Celie, nestling on his breast, was soon in slumber.  He alone was awake,—­and watching.  The dogs, flat on their bellies, were dead to the world.  For an hour he kept his vigil.  In that time he could not see that Blake moved.  He heard nothing suspicious.  And the night grew steadily brighter with the white glow of the stars.  He held the revolver in his hand now.  The starlight played on it in a steely glitter that could not fail to catch Blake’s eyes should he awake.

And then Philip found himself fighting—­fighting desperately to keep awake.  Again and again his eyes closed, and he forced them open with an effort.  He had planned that they would rest for two or three hours.  The two hours were gone when for the twentieth time his eyes shot open, and he looked at Blake.  The outlaw had not moved.  His head hung still lower on his breast, and again—­ slowly—­irresistibly—­exhaustion closed Philip’s eyes.  Even then Philip was conscious of fighting against the overmastering desire to sleep.  It seemed to him that he was struggling for hours, and all that time his subconsciousness was crying out for him to awake, struggling to rouse him to the nearness of a great danger.  It succeeded at last.  His eyes opened, and he stared in a dazed and half blinded tray toward Blake.  His first sensation was one of vast relief that he had awakened.  The stars were brighter.  The night was still.  And there, a dozen paces from him was the snow-hummock.

But Blake—­Blake—­

His heart leapt into his throat.

Blake was gone!

CHAPTER XXIV

The shock of the discovery that Blake had escaped brought Philip half to his knees before he thought of Celie.  In an instant the girl was awake.  His arm had tightened almost fiercely about her.  She caught the gleam of his revolver, and in another moment she saw the empty space where their prisoner had been.  Swiftly Philip’s eyes traveled over the moonlit spaces about them.  Blake had utterly disappeared.  Then he saw the rifle, and breathed easier.  For some reason the outlaw had not taken that, and it was a moment or two before the significance of the fact broke upon him.  Blake must have escaped just as he was making that last tremendous fight to rouse himself.  He had had no more than time to slink away into the shadows of the night, and had not paused to hazard a chance of securing the weapon that lay on the snow close to Celie.  He had evidently believed that Philip was only half asleep, and in the moonlight he must have seen the gleam of the big revolver leveled over his captor’s knee.