For an hour he kept his
vigil. In that time he could not see that Blake moved. He heard
nothing suspicious. And the night grew steadily brighter with the
white glow of the stars. He held the revolver in his hand now. The
starlight played on it in a steely glitter that could not fail to
catch Blake's eyes should he awake.
And then Philip found himself fighting--fighting desperately to
keep awake. Again and again his eyes closed, and he forced them
open with an effort. He had planned that they would rest for two
or three hours. The two hours were gone when for the twentieth
time his eyes shot open, and he looked at Blake. The outlaw had
not moved. His head hung still lower on his breast, and again--
slowly--irresistibly--exhaustion closed Philip's eyes. Even then
Philip was conscious of fighting against the overmastering desire
to sleep. It seemed to him that he was struggling for hours, and
all that time his subconsciousness was crying out for him to
awake, struggling to rouse him to the nearness of a great danger.
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