She woke him anxiously shaking at his sunburnt shoulders.
“What’s the matter？”she kept asking over and over again“Alan, what’s wrong?”
He stared up at her, blinking in the glow of the dying camp fire.
“Nothing,”he said automatically.“Nothing really.”
“Just a bad dream, that’s all.”
“You were crying.”Her voice was soft, tender, just like she used to be.
Alan turned over in his sleeping bag. “I’m fine.”he said.“Let’s get some sleep.”
Alan woke with the early-morning sun gently warming his face. He sat up, his head muzzy with the dream, his cheeks salty, tear-stained.“You were crying.”Her voice came back to him and he winced. Alice had felt sorry for him and he instantly smothered, patronized. He broke into a sweat of agony and apprehension. How could he ever open up a discussion with her now?
He looked cautiously round her sleeping bag. It was empty and Alan froze. Then, gradually, he relaxed. It was just after eight and she had probably gone to find a place to go to the loo. He waited, calmly, gloomily, and then anxiously as she did not appear. Hurriedly Alan struggled out of his sleeping bag and began to search the grounds of the monastery. But there was no sign of her at all.