Intense physical pain dawned upon him at the same time, pain that
was anguish, thrilling through every nerve, so that he pleaded
feverishly for death, not knowing what he said.
No voice answered him. No help came. He rocked on and on in torment
through the sandy desolation, seeing strange visions dissolve before his
eyes, hearing sounds to which his tortured brain could give no meaning.
In the end, he lost himself utterly in the mazes of delirum, and all
understanding ceased.
Long, long afterwards he came back as it were from a great journey, and
knew that Hassan was waiting upon him, ministering to him, tending him
as if he had been a child. He was too weak for speech, almost too weak
to open his eyes, but the life was still beating in his veins. It was
the turn of the tide.
Wearily he dragged himself back from the endless waste in which he had
wandered, back to sanity, back to the problems of life. Hassan smiled
upon him as a mother upon her infant, being not without cause for
self-congratulation on his own account.
"The _effendi_ is better," he said. "He will sleep and live."
And Herne slept, as a child sleeps, for many hours.
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