A precipice lay before him. He leapt
wildly, and knew at once that he had leapt into fire, into hell. But
the red gleam was that of a torch, and before him, as he opened his
eyes, stood one of his faithful attendants who had come to see if
all was well with him. He asked for water, and the man fetched him a
draught. It was yet long till dawn.
Now he could not lie still, for fever burned him. Though awake, he
saw visions, and once sent forth what seemed to him a yell of
terror; but in truth it was only a moan, and no one heard. He
relived through the fight with the marauders; sickened with dread at
the gleam of weapons; flamed into fury, and shouted with savage
exultation as he felt his sword cut the neck of an enemy. He was
trying to think of Veranilda, but all through the night her image
eluded him, and her name left him cold. He was capable only of
hatred. At daybreak he slept heavily; the men, approaching him and
looking at his haggard face, thought better to let him rest, and
only after sunrise did he awake. He was angry that they had not
aroused him sooner, got speedily to horse, and rode off almost at
the same speed as yesterday.
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