eight o'clock
Allan realized that this must be the crucial day . Either by nightfall he must sight the mountain or he must turn back . And with fever-burning eagerness he urged his limping men to greater speed , chafed at every delay , constantly examined the horizon , and with consuming wrath cursed the Horde which in its venomous hate had brought this anguish and disaster on his people . Just a little past eight o'clock a cry suddenly burst from Zangamon , who had left the line during a pause to look for water in a near-by hollow . Stern heard the man 's hoarse voice unmistakably resonant with terror . To him he ran . `` What is it , Zangamon ? ''