“The fence will help, old man” he said.  “Here, you, pay attention and get over.”  He tried to insinuate himself between the horse and the fence, but the horse did not seem inclined to move.

“Get over, you!” he said, and gave a shove.  The horse moved a little, very unwillingly.  “Farther yet,” said Aladdin:  “Get over, you, get over.”  Again he shoved; this time harder.  He slapped the great shoulder with his open hand.  And again the horse moved, but very slowly.  “You’re an unwilling brute, aren’t you?” he said angrily.

For answer the thing tottered, and, to his horror, began to fall, at first slowly, but ever with accelerating speed, until, in the exact attitude in which it had stood by the fence,—­the great Roman-nosed head thrown up and out, as if to neigh,—­he beheld the horse stretched before him on the ground, and noted for the first time the awful death-like glint of the yellow teeth through the parting of the lips.

He went very gravely from that place, for he had been looking upon death by freezing, and he himself was terribly cold, terribly tired, and—­he admitted it now—­completely lost.

But he went on for a long time—­four or five hundred years.  And it grew darker and colder.

He began to talk to himself, to try and steady himself, as he had done ever since childhood at forsaken times.

“Troubles,” he said, “You’re full of troubles, aren’t you, old man?  You always were.  But this is the worst.  You can’t walk very much farther, can you?  I can’t.  And if you don’t get helped by some one pretty soon, you’re going to come to the end of your troubles.  And, Troubles, do you know, I think that’s what’s going to happen to you and me, and I want you to stand up to it if it comes [gulp] and face it like a man.  Now let’s rest a little, Troubles, will we?”

Troubles and Aladdin rested a little.  When the rest was over they could hardly move, and they began to see the end of a young man that they had hoped would live a long time and be very happy.  They went on.

“Troubles,” said Aladdin, “do you suppose she knows that we are out here, perhaps dying?  We would know if she were, wouldn’t we?  And do you think she cares?  Liar, you know she cares, and a lot.  She wouldn’t be she if she didn’t care.  But we didn’t think that all the years of waiting and hoping and loving and trying to be something would end like this, did we, Troubles?  We thought that it might end with the godlike Manners (whom we wouldn’t help if he were freezing to death, would we?), but not like this—­O Lord God, not like this! . . .  And we weren’t sure it would end with Manners; we were going to fight it out to a mighty good finish, weren’t we, Troubles?  But now it’s going to end in a mighty good storm, and you’re going to die for all your troubles, Troubles . . .  And I’m talking to you so that we won’t lose our sand, even if we are afraid to die, and there’s no one looking on.”