"Impossible!" replied Kennedy, "I cannot stir a step."
"I would rather sleep," said Joe.
"But sleep or repose is deadly, my friends. Struggle against this languor. Come along!"
The doctor could prevail nothing, so he went away alone into the midst of the starry and transparent night. His first steps were made with difficulty—the steps of a man weakened and unaccustomed to walking—but he was well aware that the exercise would do him good. He advanced many miles towards the west, and his mind was already feeling more consoled, when suddenly he was seized with faintness; he fancied he was falling into a pit, he felt his knees give way beneath him—the vast solitude frightened him. He felt the central point of an infinite circumference, that is to say, nothing. The "Victoria" disappeared altogether in the darkness. The doctor was seized by a fearful foreboding—he, the cool, intrepid traveler. He wanted to return, but in vain. He called out; there was not even an echo to reply, and his voice fell into space like a stone cast into a bottomless abyss. He cast himself, almost swooning, upon the sand, alone amidst the terrible solitude of the desert.
At midnight he regained consciousness in the arms of his faithful Joe, who, anxious at his master's prolonged absence, had followed his tracks, firmly printed in the plain. He found him senseless.
"What has been the matter, sir?" inquired Joe.
"Nothing, my brave Joe; a momentary weakness, that's all."
"That will be nothing to hurt, sir; but get up and lean on me, and we will regain the 'Victoria.'" And the doctor, assisted by Joe, retraced his steps.
"It was imprudent of you sir; you should not have ventured alone. You might have been robbed," he added, laughing. "But seriously speaking, sir———"
"Well, I am listening."
"We must really do something; we cannot go on thus for many days longer and if no wind gets up, we are lost."
The doctor did not reply.
"Well, someone must sacrifice himself for the good of the rest; and it is only natural that I should."
