He worked a good hour or more without result, came down to her, and
found her in a deep sleep. As he noiselessly left her, he wondered how
many men could have slept peacefully in such a case as hers.
Once more he took the heavy bar, and toiled on, but he felt that his
strength was failing fast for want of food. He had eaten nothing since
midday, and had not even drunk water, and in six hours he had done as
much hard work as two ordinary workmen could have accomplished in a
day. With a certain amount of rest, he could still go on, but a
quarter of an hour would no longer be enough. He was very thirsty,
too, but though he might have drunk his fill from the hollow of his
hand, he could not yet bring himself to taste the water. He was afraid
that he might be driven to it before long, but he would resist as long
as he could.
Every stroke was an effort now, as he struggled on blindly, not only
against the material obstacle, but against the growing terror that was
taking possession of him, the hideous probability of having worked in
vain after all, and the still worse certainty of what the end must be
if he really failed.
Effort after effort, stroke after stroke, though each seemed
impossible after the last. He could not fail, and let that poor girl
die, unless he could die first, of sheer exhaustion.
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