Out to the south, as many miles as he should have strength to walk, away from any road or water-hole, a great thirst would come, and then delirium, perhaps bringing visions of cool running water and green trees.

He would hurry toward these madly until he stumbled and fell and died.

Then would come those cynical scavengers of the desert, the vulture wheeling lower, the coyote skulking nearer, pausing suspiciously to sniff and to see if he moved.

Then a few poor bones, half-buried by the restless sand, would be left to whiten and crumble into particles of the same desert dust he looked upon.

As for his soul, he shuddered to think its dissolution could not also be made as sure.
He stood looking out a long time, held by the weak spirit of a hope that some reprieve might come, from within or from on high.