His companion made no reply. They marched on to their own part of the encampment, and seated themselves at the little fire which had been left burning for them.[4] [Footnote 4: The original journals of these two astonishing young men--one of them just thirty years old, the other thirty-four--should rank among the epic literature of the world. Battered about, scattered, separated, lost, hawked from hand to hand, handed down as unvalued heritages, "edited" first by this and then by that little man, sometimes to the extent of actual mutilation or alteration of their text--the journals of Meriwether Lewis and William Clark hold their ineffacable clarity in spite of all. Their most curious quality is the strange blending of two large souls which they show. It was only by studying closely the individual differences of handwriting, style, and spelling, that it could be determined what was the work of Lewis, which that done by Clark.
And what a labor! After long days of toil and danger, under unvarying hardships, in conditions of extremest discomfort and inconvenience for such work, the two young leaders set down with unflagging faithfulness countless thousands of details, all in such fashion as showed the keenest and most exact powers of observation. Botanists, naturalists, geographers, map-makers, builders, engineers, hunters, journalists, they brought back in their notebooks a mass of information never equaled by the records of any other party of explorers.
We cannot overestimate the sum of labor which all this meant, day after day, month after month; nor should we underestimate the qualities of mind and education demanded of them, nor the varied experience of life in primitive surroundings which needed to be part of their requisite equipment. It was indeed as if the two friends were fitted by the plan of Providence for this great enterprise which they concluded in such simple, unpretending, yet minutely thorough fashion. Neither thought himself a hero, therefore each was one. The largest glory to be accorded them is that they found their ambition and their content in the day's work well done.] William Clark went on with his reproving.
"Tell me, Merne, what are you thinking of? It is not that woman?"
He seemed to feel the sudden shrinking of the tall figure at his side.
"I have touched you on the raw once more, haven't I, Merne?" he exclaimed. "I never meant to. I only want to see you happy."
"You must not be too uneasy, Will," returned Meriwether Lewis, at last. "It is only that sometimes at night I lie awake and ponder over things. And the nights themselves are wonderful!"
"Saw you ever such nights, Merne, in all your life? Breathed you ever such air as these plains carry in the nighttime? Why do you not exult--what is it you cannot forget? You don't really deceive me, Merne. What is it that you see when you lie awake at night under the stars? Some face, eh? What, Merne? You mean to tell me you are still so foolish? We left three months ago. I gave you two months for forgetting her--and that is enough! Come, now, perhaps some maid of the Mandans, on ahead, will prove fair enough to pipe to you, or to touch the bull-hide tambourine in such fashion as to charm you from your sorrows! No, don't be offended--it is only that I want to tell you not to take that old affair too hard. And now, it is time for you to turn in."