They dropped him
like a stone, and fled as if pursued by furies.
As for Herne, he wriggled and writhed from the vicinity of the fire,
still working at his bonds, his one idea to reach the water that he knew
was running within a stone's throw of him. It was an agonizing progress,
but he felt no pain but that awful, consuming thirst, knew no fear but a
ghastly dread that he might fail to reach his goal. For a single
mouthful of water at that moment he would have bartered his very soul.
His breathing came in great gasps. The sweat was running down his face.
His heart beat thickly, spasmodically. His senses were tottering. But he
clung tenaciously to the one idea. He could not die with his thirst
unquenched. If he crawled every inch of the way upon his stomach, he
would somehow reach the haven of his desire.
There came the padding of feet upon the sand close to him, and he cursed
aloud and bitterly. It was death this time, of course. He shut his eyes
and lay motionless, waiting for it. He only hoped that it might be
swift; that the hellish torture he was suffering might be ended at a
blow.
But no blow fell. Hands touched him, severed his bonds, dragged him
roughly up.
Pages:
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387