The Quest of the Four: A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista

by Joseph A. Altsheler

  CHAPTER VI

  THE MEDICINE LODGE

  Okapa uttered a name. A young warrior, bare to the waist, steppedforward, entering the circular space within the ropes. He called asecond name, and a second warrior responded in like manner, then a thirdand fourth, and so on until his list was complete with twelve. Thesewere to be the dancers. One was chosen for every one hundredpersons--men, women, and children--in the band. Therefore, this villagehad a population of twelve hundred.

  The dancers, all young men, stood close together, awaiting the signal.They had been taking strange compounds, like drugs, that the Indiansmake from plants, and their eyes were shining with wild light. Theirbodies already moved in short, convulsive jerks. Any dancer who did notrespond to his name would have been disgraced for life.

  After a few moments Okapa called six more names, with a short delayafter every one. Six powerful warriors, fully armed with rifle,tomahawk, and knife, responded, and took their position beside theropes, but outside the ring. They were the guard, and the guard wasalways half the number of the dancers.

  Now the breathing of the multitude became more intense and heavy, like agreat murmur, and Okapa handed to every one of the dancers a smallwhistle made of wood or bone, in the lower end of which was fastened asingle tail feather of the chaparral cock or road runner, known to theIndians as the medicine bird. The dancers put the little whistles intheir mouths, then the shaman arranged them in a circle facing thecenter. The crowd in the medicine lodge now pressed forward, utteringshort gasps of excitement, but the guards kept them back from the ropes.

  To the boy at the slit between the buffalo skins it was wild, unreal,and fantastic beyond degree, some strange, mysterious ceremony out of anold world that had passed. He saw the bare chests of the warriors risingand falling, the women as eager as the men, a great mass of lightcoppery faces, all intense and bent forward to see better. He knew thatthe air in the medicine lodge was heavy, and that its fumes wereexciting, like those of gunpowder. Parallel with the dancers, andexactly in the center of their circle, hung the hideously carved andpainted joss or wooden image. The twelve looked fixedly at it.

  The shaman, standing on one side but within the circle, uttered a short,sharp cry. Instantly the twelve dancers began to blow shrilly andcontinuously upon their whistles, and they moved slowly in a circlearound and around toward the right, their eyes always fixed upon thejoss. The multitude broke into a wild chant, keeping time to thewhistles, and around and around the dancers went. The shaman, starknaked, his whole body painted in symbols and hieroglyphics, never ceasedto watch them. To Philip's eyes he became at once the figure ofMephistopheles.

  It was difficult for Phil afterward to account for the influence thisscene had over him. He was not within the medicine lodge. Where he layoutside the fresh cool air of the night blew over him. But he wasunconscious of it. He saw only the savage phantasmagoria within, and byand by he began to have some touch of the feeling that animated thedancers and the crowd. An hour, two hours went by. Not one of the menhad ceased for an instant to blow upon his whistle, nor to move slowlyaround and around the wooden image, always to the right. The dance,like the music, was monotonous, merely a sort of leaping motion, but nowarrior staggered. He kept his even place in the living circle, and onand on they went. Perspiration appeared on their faces and gleamed ontheir naked bodies. Their eyes, wild and fanatical, showed soulssteeped in superstition and the intoxication of the dance.

  Many of those in the crowd shared in the fierce paroxysm of the hour,and pressed forward upon the ropes, as if to join the dancers, but thearmed guard thrust them back. The dancers, their eyes fixed on thejoss, continued, apparently intending to go around the circle forever.The air in the lodge, heavy with dust and the odors of oil and paint andhuman beings, would have been intolerable to one just coming from theoutside, but it only excited those within all the more.

  Phil's muscles stiffened as he lay on the bough, but his positionagainst one of the wooden scantlings that held the buffalo skins inplace was easy, and he did not stir. His eyes were always at the slitand he became oppressed with a strange curiosity. How long could themen maintain the dancing and singing? He was conscious that quite along time had passed, three or four hours, but there was yet nofaltering. Nor did the chant of the crowd cease. Their song, as Phillearned later, ran something like this:

  "The Comanche goes forth to war, His arrow and bow he takes, The shaman's blessing is on his head. His eye is keen and his arm is strong; He rides the plain like the wind; His spirit is hot as the touch of fire. The foeman fights but his strength fails; His scalp hangs at the Comanche's belt."

  There were four or five verses of this, but as soon as they were allsung, the singers went back to the beginning and sang them again andagain in endless repetition, while the twelve little whistles shrilledout their piercing accompaniment. The wind began to blow outside, butPhil did not feel it. Heavy clouds and vapors were drifting past, buthe did not notice them, either. Would this incantation, for now it wasnothing else, go on forever? Certainly the shaman, naked and hideouslypainted, presided with undiminished zest at this dance of the imps. Hemoved now and then about the circle of dancers, noting them sharply, hiseye ready for any sign of wavering, whether of the spirit or the body.

  Phil observed presently some shifting in the crowd of spectators, andthen a new face appeared in the copper-colored mass. It was the face ofa white man, and with a little start the boy recognized it as that ofBill Breakstone. It may seem singular, but he felt a certain joy atseeing him there. He had felt sure all the while that Breakstone was aprisoner, and now he had found him. Certainly he was in the midst ofenemies. Nevertheless, the boy had gone a step forward in his search.

  Breakstone was not bound--there was no need of it, a single white man insuch a crowd--and Phil thought he could see pallor showing through histan, but the captive bore himself bravely. Evidently he was broughtforward as a trophy, as the chant was broken for a moment or two, and agreat shout went up when he approached, except from the dancers, whocircled on and on, blowing their whistles, without ceasing. Okapawalked over to Breakstone and brandished a tomahawk before his face,making the sharp blade whistle in front of his nose and then besideeither cheek. Phil held his breath, but Bill Breakstone folded his armsand stood immovable, looking the ferocious shaman squarely in the face.It was at once the best thing and the hardest thing to do, never toflinch while a razor edge of steel flashed so close to one's face thatit felt cold as it passed.

  Two or three minutes of such amusement satisfied the shaman, and, goingback inside the ropes, he turned his attention again to the dancers. Itwas now much past midnight, and the slenderest and youngest of thewarriors was beginning to show some signs of weakness. The shamanwatched him keenly. He would last a long time yet, and if he gave up itwould not occur until he fell unconscious. Then he would be draggedout, water would be thrown over him, and, when he recovered, he would becompelled to resume dancing if the shaman ordered it. Sometimes thedancers died of exhaustion. It was well to be in the good graces of theshaman.

  But Phil was now watching Bill Breakstone, who was pressing back in thecrowd, getting as far as possible from the ropes that enclosed thedancers. Once or twice he saw Breakstone's face, and it seemed to himthat he read there an intention, a summoning of his faculties andresolution for some great attempt. The mind of a man at such a timecould hold only one purpose, and that would be the desire to escape.Yet he could not escape single-handed, despite the absorption of theComanches in the medicine dance. There was only one door to the greatlodge, and it was guarded. But Phil was there. He felt that the hand ofProvidence itself had sent him at this critical moment, and that BillBreakstone, with his help, might escape.

  He watched for a long time. It must have been three or four o'clock inthe morning. The whistling, shrill, penetrating, now and then gettinghorribly upon his ner
ves, still went on. The wavering warrior seemed tohave got his second wind, and around and around the warriors went, theireyes fixed steadily upon the hideous wooden face of the joss. Philbelieved that it must be alive to them now. It was alive to him evenwith its ghastly cheek of black and its ghastly cheek of white, and itsthick, red lips, grinning down at the fearful strain that was put uponmen for its sake.

  Phil's eyes again sought Breakstone. The captive had now pushed himselfback against the buffalo skin wall and stood there, as if he had reachedthe end of his effort. He, too, was now watching the dancers. Philnoted his position, with his shoulder against one of the wooden piecesthat supported the buffalo hide, and the lad now saw the way. Courage,resolution, and endurance had brought him to the second step on thestairway of success.

  Phil sat on the bough and stretched his limbs again and again to bringback the circulation. Then he became conscious of something that he hadnot noticed before in his absorption. It was raining lightly. Dropsfell from the boughs and leaves, but his rifle, sheltered against hiscoat, was dry, and the rain might serve the useful purpose of hiding thetraces of footsteps from trailers so skilled as the Comanches.

  He dropped to the ground and moved softly by the side of the lodge,which was circular in shape, until he came to the point at which hebelieved Bill Breakstone rested. There was the wooden scantling, and,unless he had made a great mistake, the shoulder of the captive waspressed against the buffalo hide on the left of it. He deliberated amoment or two, but he knew that he must take a risk, a big risk. Nosuccess was possible without it, and he drew forth his hunting-knife.Phil was proud of this hunting-knife. It was long, and large of blade,and keen of edge. He carried it in a leather scabbard, and he had usedit but little. He put the sharp point against the buffalo hide at aplace about the height of a man, and next to the scantling on the left.Then he pressed upon the blade, and endeavored to cut through the skin.It was no easy task. Buffalo hide is heavy and tough, but he graduallymade a small slit, without noise, and then, resting his hand and arm,looked through it.

  Phil saw little definite, only a confused mass of heads and bodies, thelight of torches gleaming beyond them, and close by, almost against hiseyes, a thatch of hair. That hair was brown and curling slightly, suchhair as never grew on the head of an Indian. It could clothe the headof Bill Breakstone and none other. Phil's heart throbbed once more.Courage and decision had won again. He put his mouth to the slit andwhispered softly:

  "Bill! Bill! Don't move! It is I, Phil Bedford!"

  The thatch of brown hair, curling slightly at the ends, turned gently,and back came the whisper, so soft that it could not have been heardmore than a foot away:

  "Phil, good old Phil! You've come for me! I might have known it!"

  "Are they still looking at the dance?"

  "Yes, they can't keep their eyes off it."

  "Then now is your only chance. You must get out of this medicine lodge,and I will help you. I'm going to cut through the buffalo hide lowdown, then you must stoop and push your way out at the slash, whenthey're not looking."

  "All right," said Bill Breakstone, and Phil detected the thrill of joyin his tone. Phil stooped and bearing hard upon the knife, cut a slashthrough the hide from the height of his waist to the ground.

  "Now, Bill," he whispered, "when you think the time has come, pressthrough."

  "All right," again came the answer with that leaping tone in it.

  Phil put the knife back in its scabbard, and, pressing closely againstthe hide beside the slash, waited. Bill did not come. A minute,another, and a third passed. He heard the monotonous whistling, thesteady chant, and the ceaseless beat of the dancer's feet, butBreakstone made no sound. Once more he pressed his lips to the slit,and said in the softest of tones:

  "Are you coming, Bill?"

  No answer, and again he waited interminable minutes. Then the lips ofthe buffalo skin parted, and a shoulder appeared at the opening. It wasthrust farther, and a head and face, the head and face of BillBreakstone, followed. Then he slipped entirely out, and the toughbuffalo hide closed up behind him. Phil seized his hand, and the twopalms closed in a strong grasp.

  "I had to wait until nobody was looking my way," whispered Breakstone,"and then it was necessary to make it a kind of sleight-of-handperformance. I slipped through so quick that any one looking could onlysee the place where I had been."

  Then he added in tones of irrepressible admiration:

  "It was well done, it was nobly done, it was grandly done, Sir Philip ofthe Night and the Knife."

  "Hark to that!" said Phil, "they miss you already!"

  A shout, sharp, shrill, wholly different from all the other sounds, camefrom within the great medicine lodge. It was the signal of alarm. Itwas not repeated, and the whistling and wailing went on, but Phil andBreakstone knew that warriors would be out in an instant, seeking thelost captive.

  "We must run for it," whispered Breakstone, as they stood among thetrees.

  "It's too late," said Phil. Warriors with torches had already appearedat either end of the grove, but the light did not yet reach where thetwo stood in the thick darkness, with the gentle rain sifting throughthe leaves upon them. Phil saw no chance to escape, because the lightof the torches reached into the river bed, and then, like lightning, theidea came to him.

  "Look over your head, Bill," he said. "You stand under an Indianplatform for the dead, and I under another! Jump up on yours and liedown between the mummies, and I'll do the same here. Take this pistolfor the last crisis, if it should come!"

  He thrust his pistol into his companion's hand, seized a bough, and drewhimself up. Bill Breakstone was quick of comprehension, and in aninstant he did likewise. Two bodies tightly wrapped in deerskin wereabout three feet apart, and Phil, not without a shudder, lay downbetween them. Bill Breakstone on his platform did the same. They werecompletely hidden, but the soft rain seeped through the trees and fellupon their faces. Phil stretched his rifle by his side and scarcelybreathed.

  The medicine dance continued unbroken inside. Okapa, greatest shaman ofthe Comanches, still stood in the ring watching the circling twelve.The symbols and hieroglyphics painted on his naked body gleamed ruddilyin the light of the torches, but the war chief, Black Panther, and theother great war chief, Santana, had gone forth with many good warriors.The single cry had warned them. Sharp eyes had quickly detected theslit in the wall of buffalo skin, and even the littlest Indian boy knewthat this was the door by which the captive had passed. He knew, too,that he must have had a confederate who had helped from the outside, butthe warriors were sure that they could yet retake the captive and hisfriend also.

  Black Panther, Santana, and a dozen warriors, some carrying torches,rushed into the grove. They ran by the side of the medicine lodge untilthey came to the slit. There they stopped and examined it, pulling itopen widely. They noticed the powerful slash of the knife that had cutthrough the tough buffalo hide four feet to the ground. Then they kneltdown and examined the ground for traces of footsteps. But the rain, thebeneficent, intervening rain, had done its work. It had pushed down thegrass with gentle insistence and flooded the ground until nothing wasleft from which the keenest Comanche could derive a clue. They ranabout like dogs in the brake, seeking the scent, but they found nothing.Warriors from the river had reported, also, that they saw nobody.

  It was marvelous, incomprehensible, this sudden vanishing of the captiveand his friend, and the two chiefs were troubled. They glanced up atthe dark platforms of the dead and shivered a little. Perhaps thespirits of those who had passed were not favorable to them. It was wellthat Okapa made medicine within to avert disaster from the tribe. ButBlack Panther and Santana were brave men, else they would not have beengreat chiefs, and they still searched in this grove, which was more orless sacred, examining behind every tree, prowling among the bushes, andsearching the grass again and again for footsteps.

  Phil lay flat upon his back, and those moments
were as vivid in hismemory years afterward as if they were passing again. Either elbowalmost touched the shrouded form of some warrior who had lived intenselyin his time. They did not inspire any terror in him now. His enemiesalive, they had become, through no will of their own, his protectorsdead. He did not dare even to turn on his side for fear of making anoise that might be heard by the keen watchers below. He merely lookedup at the heavens, which were somber, full of drifting clouds, andwithout stars or moon. The rain was gradually soaking through hisclothing, and now and then drops struck him in the eyes, but he did notnotice them.

  He heard the Comanches walking about beneath him, and the guttural notesof their words that he did not understand, but he knew that neither henor Bill Breakstone could expect much mercy if they were found. Afterone escape they would be lucky if they met quick death and not tortureat the hands of the Comanches. He saw now and then the reflection of thetorch-lights high up on the walls of the medicine lodge, but generallyhe saw only the clouds and vapors above him.

  Despite the voices and footsteps, Phil felt that they would not be seen.No one would ever think of looking in such places for him andBreakstone. But the wait was terribly long, and the suspense was anacute physical strain. He felt his breath growing shorter, and thestrength seemed to depart from his arms and legs. He was glad that hewas lying down, as it would have been hard to stand upon one's feet andwait, helpless and in silence, while one's fate was being decided.There was even a fear lest his breathing should turn to a gasp, and beheard by those ruthless searchers, the Comanches. Then he fell tocalculating how long it would be until dawn. The night could not lastmore than two or three hours longer, and if they were compelled toremain there until day, the chance of being seen by the Comanches wouldbecome tenfold greater.

  He longed, also, to see or hear his comrade who lay not ten feet away,but he dared not try the lowest of whispers. If he turned a little onhis side to see, the mummy of some famous Comanche would shut out theview; so he remained perfectly still, which was the wisest thing to do,and waited through interminable time. The rain still dripped throughthe foliage, and by and by the wind rose, the rain increasing with it.The wet leaves matted together, but above wind and rain came the soundfrom the medicine lodge, that ceaseless whistling and beating of thedancers' feet. He wondered when it would stop. He did not know thatComanche warriors had been known to go around and around in their dancethree days and three nights, without stopping for a moment, and withoutfood or water.

  After a long silence without, he heard the Comanches moving againthrough the grove, and the reflection from the flare of a torch struckhigh on the wall of the medicine lodge. They had come back for a secondsearch! He felt for a few moments a great apprehension lest they invadethe platforms themselves, but this thought was quickly succeeded byconfidence in the invisibility of Breakstone and himself, and thesuperstition of the Indians.

  The tread of the Comanches and their occasional talk died away, thelights disappeared from the creek bed, and the regions, outside themedicine lodge and the other lodges, were left to the darkness and therain. Phil felt deep satisfaction, but he yet remained motionless andsilent. He longed to call to Breakstone, but he dreaded lest he mightdo something rash. Bill Breakstone was older than he, and had spentmany years in the wilderness. It was for him to act first. Phil,despite an overwhelming desire to move and to speak, held himself rigidand voiceless. In a half hour came the soft, whispering question:

  "Phil, are you there?"

  It was Breakstone from the next tree, and never was sound more welcome.He raised himself a little, and drops of rain fell from his face.

  "Yes, I'm here, Bill, but I'm mighty anxious to move," he replied in thesame low tone.

  "I'm tired of having my home in a graveyard, too," said Bill Breakstone,"though I'll own that for the time and circumstances it was about thebest home that could be found this wide world over. It won't be morethan an hour till day, Phil, and if we make the break at all we mustmake it now."

  "I'm with you," said Phil. "The sooner we start, the better it willplease me."

  "Better stretch yourself first about twenty times," said BillBreakstone. "Lying so long in one position with the rain coming down ontop of you may stiffen you up quite a lot."

  Phil obeyed, flexing himself thoroughly. He sat up and gently touchedthe mummy on either side of him. He had no awe, no fear of these deadwarriors. They had served him well. Then, swinging from a bough, hedropped lightly to the ground, and he heard the soft noise of some onealighting near him. The form of Bill Breakstone showed duskily.

  "Back from the tombs," came the cheerful whisper. "Phil, you're thegreatest boy that ever was, and you've done a job that the oldest andboldest scout might envy.

  "I was a captive, The Indians had me; Phil was adaptive, Now they've lost me.

  "I composed that rhyme while I was lying on the death platform up there.I certainly had plenty of time--and now which way did you come, Phil?"

  "Under the shelter of the creek bank. The woods run down to it, and itis high enough to hide a man."

  "Then that is the way we will go, and we will not linger in the going.Let the Comanches sing and dance if they will. They can enjoythemselves that way, but we can enjoy ourselves more by running down thedark bed of a creek."

  They slipped among the wet trees and bushes, and silently loweredthemselves down the bank into the sand of the creek bottom. There theytook a parting look at the medicine lodge. It showed through a rift inthe trees, huge and dark, and on either side of it the two saw faintlights in the village. Above the soft swishing of the rain rose thesteady whistling sound from the lodge, which had never been broken for amoment, not even by the escape of the prisoner and the search.

  "I was never before so glad to tell a place good-by," whispered BillBreakstone.

  "It's time to go," said Phil. "I'll lead the way, as I've been over itonce."

  He walked swiftly along the sand, keeping well under cover of the bank,and Bill Breakstone was close behind him. They heard the rain patteringon the surface of the water, and both were wet through and through, butjoy thrilled in every vein of the two. Bill Breakstone had escapeddeath and torture; Phil Bedford, a boy, had rescued him in face of theimpossible, and they certainly had full cause for rejoicing.

  "How far down the creek bed do you think we ought to go?" askedBreakstone.

  "A quarter of a mile anyway," replied Phil, "and then we can cut acrossthe plain and enter the forest."

  Everything had been so distinct and vivid that he remembered the veryplace at which he had dropped down into the creek bed, when heapproached the medicine lodge, and when he came to it again, he said:"Here we are," springing up at one bound. Breakstone promptly followedhim. Then a figure appeared in the dusk immediately in front of Phil,the figure of a tall man, naked save the breech cloth, a great crown ofbrightly colored feathers upon his head. It was a Comanche warrior,probably the last of those returning from the fruitless search for thecaptive.

  The Comanche uttered the whoop of alarm, and Phil, acting solely onimpulse, struck madly with the butt of his rifle. But he struck true.The fierce cry was suddenly cut short. The boy, with a shudderingeffect, felt something crush beneath his rifle stock. Then he and BillBreakstone leaped over the fallen body and ran with all their mightacross the plain toward the woods.

  "It was well that you hit so quick and hard," breathed Breakstone, "buthis single yell has alarmed the warriors. Look back, they are gettingready to pursue."

  Phil cast one hurried glance over his shoulder. He saw lights twinklingamong the Comanche lodges, and then he heard a long, deep, full-throatedcry, uttered by perhaps a hundred throats.

  "Hark to them!" exclaimed Breakstone. "They know the direction fromwhich that cry came, and you and I, Phil, will have to make tracksfaster than we ever did before in our lives."

  "At any rate, we've got a good start," said Phil.

  They ran with all speed towa
rd the woods, but behind them and in otherdirections they heard presently the beat of hoofs, and both felt athrill of alarm.

  "They are on their ponies, and they are galloping all over the plain,"said Bill Breakstone. "Some of them are bound to find us, but you'vethe rifle, and I've the pistol!"

  They ran with all their might, but from two or three points the ominousbeat of hoofs came closer. They were devoutly glad now of the rain andthe shadowed moon that hid them from all eyes except those very near.Both Phil and Breakstone stumbled at intervals, but they would recoverquickly, and continue at undiminished, speed for the woods, which werenow showing in a blacker line against the black sky.

  There was a sudden swift beat of hoofs, and two warriors galloped almostupon them. Both the warriors uttered shouts at sight of the fugitives,and fired. But in the darkness and hurry they missed. Breakstone firedin return, and one of the Indians fell from his pony. Phil was about tofire at the other, but the Comanche made his pony circle so rapidly thatin the faint light he could not get any kind of aim. Then he sawsomething dark shoot out from the warrior's hand and uncoil in the air.A black, snakelike loop fell over Bill Breakstone's head, settled downon his shoulders, and was suddenly drawn taut, as the mustang settledback on his haunches. Bill Breakstone, caught in the lasso, was thrownto the ground by the violent jerk, but with the stopping of the horsecame Phil's chance. He fired promptly, and the Comanche fell from thesaddle. The frightened mustang ran away, just as Breakstone staggereddizzily to his feet. Phil seized him by the arm.

  "A black, snakelike loop fell over Bill Breakstone'shead"]

  "Come, Bill, come!" he cried. "The woods are not thirty yards away!"

  "Once more unto the breach, or rather the woods!" exclaimed thehalf-unconscious man. "Lead on, Prince Hal, and I follow! That'smixed, but I mean well!"

  They ran for the protecting woods, Breakstone half supported by Phil,and behind them they now heard many cries and the tread of many hoofs.A long, black, snake-like object followed Bill Breakstone, trailingthrough the grass and weeds. They had gone half way before Phil noticedit. Then he snatched out his knife and severed the lasso. It fellquivering, as if it were a live thing, and lay in a wavy line across thegrass. But the fugitives were now at the edge of the woods, and BillBreakstone's senses came back to him in full.

  "Well done again, Sir Philip of the Knife and the Ready Mind," hewhispered. "I now owe two lives to you. I suppose that if I were a catI would in the end owe you nine. But suppose we turn off here at anangle to the right, and then farther on we'll take another angle. Ithink we're saved. They can't follow us on horses in these dense woods,and in all this darkness."

  They stepped lightly now, but drew their breaths in deep gasps, theirhearts throbbing painfully, and the blood pounding in their ears. Butthey thanked God again for the clouds and the moonless, starless sky.It could not be long until day, but it would be long enough to savethem.

  They went nearly a quarter of a mile to the right, and then they tookanother angle, all the while bearing deeper into the hills. From timeto time they heard the war cries of the Comanches coming from differentpoints, evidently signals to one another, but there was no sound offootsteps near them.

  "Let's stop and rest a little," said Bill Breakstone. "These woods areso thick and there is so much undergrowth that they cannot penetratehere with horses, and, as they know that at least one of us is armed,they will be a little wary about coming here on foot. They know we'dfight like tigers to save ourselves. 'Thrice armed is he who hath hisquarrel just,' and if a man who is trying to save his life hasn't got ajust quarrel, I don't know who has. Here's a good place."

  They had come to a great oak which grew by the side of a rock projectingfrom a hill. The rain had been gentle, and the little alcove, formed bythe rock above and the great trunk of the tree on one side, wassheltered and dry. Moreover, it contained many dead leaves of thepreceding autumn, which had been caught there when whirled before thewinds. It was large enough for two, and they crept into it, notuttering but feeling deep thanks.