Although living, there lay between them the gulf of death.
Gray, misty, and silent came the dawn, stealing across the wide desolation like some ghostly presence--the dawn of a day which held for these two nothing except despair.

They greeted its slow coming with dulled, wearied eyes, unwelcoming.

Drearier amid that weird twilight than in the concealing darkness stretched the desolate waste of encircling sand, its hideous loneliness rendered more apparent, its scars of alkali disfiguring the distance, its gaunt cacti looking deformed and merciless.

The horses moved forward beneath the constant urging of the spur, worn from fatigue, their heads drooping, their flanks wet, their dragging hoofs ploughing the sand.

The woman never changed her posture, never seemed to realize the approach of dawn; but Winston roused up, lifting his head to gaze wearily forward.