Long Live the King! by Guy Boothby

The first day's march, after they left the main camp, could not be said to have been, in any sense of the word, either a pleasant or a comfortable one. Both the men were ill at ease, not only with their present lot, but also with each other. Moreas entertained the unpleasant suspicion that Max, while he never failed in his duty, was, in reality, more in sympathy with Bertram than with himself. The anxiety of what was before them lay heavily upon their minds, while there was a nameless, indescribable something that Max could not understand, and yet which stood like a shadow between them. It soon became apparent to him that the dangers to which they were to be subjected had not been in the least exaggerated. For no less than four days they continued on through the mountains, and it was only after incredible hardships that they managed to reach the plains on the other side. Here, however, as it turned out, they were in scarcely a better plight.

As they expected, on leaving the mountains they found themselves confronted by a stretch of desert. To attempt to cross it seemed to be to run too great a risk, and yet to turn back, when they were so near the end, seemed an equally foolish undertaking. With a dogged determination, worthy of a better cause, and with which Max had never credited him, Moreas decided in favour of pushing on.