In
the darkness he could not see his face, though it was close to his own,
so close that he could feel his breathing, quick and hard, and knew that
it had been no light matter to master him.
He himself had wholly ceased to fight. He was bleeding freely from the
shoulder, and a dizzy sense of powerlessness held him passive, awaiting
his deathblow.
But still his adversary stayed his hand. The iron grip showed no sign of
relaxing, and to Herne, lying at his mercy, there came a fierce
impatience at the man's delay.
"Curse you!" he flung upwards from between his teeth. "Why can't you
strike and have done?"
His brain had begun to reel. He was scarcely in full possession of his
senses, or he had not wasted his breath in curses upon a savage who was
little likely to understand them. But the moment he had spoken, he knew
in some subtle fashion that his words had not fallen on uncomprehending
ears.
The hands that held him relaxed very gradually. The man above him seemed
to be listening. Herne had a fantastic feeling that he was waiting for
something further, waiting as it were to gather impetus to slay him.
And then, how it happened he had no notion, suddenly he was aware of a
change, felt the danger that menaced him pass, knew a surging darkness
that he took for death; and as his failing senses slid away from him he
thought he heard a voice that spoke his name.
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