He was on one knee, when the thread of life
snapped, and he fell headlong into the fire. I saw this as through
a hazy veil and almost instantly my senses left me again.
I have no clear knowledge of what happened after this. Throughout the
rest of the night, my madness mercifully left me insensible to the
full appreciation of the situation and my future prospects. It was
night again before I was able to arouse myself from my collapse. The
fire was out, the forest dark and still, except for the weird cry of
the owl, the uncanny "Mother of the Moon." Poor Jerome lay quiet among
the embers. I did not have the courage, even if I had had the strength,
to pull the body away, for there could be nothing left of his face
by now. I looked at him once more, shuddering, and because I could
not walk, I crept on all fours through the brush, without any object
in mind,--just kept moving--just crept on like a sick, worthless dog.
One definite incident of the night I remember quite distinctly. It
occurred during one of those moments when my senses returned for a
while; when I could realise where I was and how I got there. I was
crawling through the thicket making small, miserable progress, my
insensible face and hands torn and scratched by spines and thorns
which I did not heed, when something bumped against my thigh; I
clutched at it and my hand closed around the butt of my automatic
pistol.
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