Last,
but not least, I kept the hypodermic needle and a few more ampules.
We had walked scarcely a quarter of a mile when Jerome collapsed. The
poor fellow declared that he was beaten; it was no use to fight any
more; he begged me to hurry the inevitable and send a bullet through
his brain. The prospect of another visitation of Death aroused me
from my stupor. I got him to a dry spot and found some dry leaves and
branches with which I started a fire. Jerome was beyond recognising
me. He lay by the fire, drawing long, wheezing breaths, and his face
was horribly distorted, like that of a man in a violent fit. He
babbled incessantly to himself and occasionally stared at me and
broke out into shrill, dreadful laughter, that made my flesh creep.
All this overwhelmed me and sapped the little energy I had left. I
threw myself on the ground some little distance from the fire, not
caring if I ever rose again.
How long it was before a penetrating, weird cry aroused me from this
stupor, I do not know, but when I raised my head I saw that the forest
was growing dark and the fire burning low. I saw too that Jerome was
trying to get on his feet, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his
face crimson in colour.
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