The trees and the
earth itself wavered. His head began to ache and his stomach was weak.
Had the finest of food been presented to him he could not have eaten it.
He had an extraordinary feeling of depression and despair.
Ned knew what was the matter with him. He was suffering either from
overwhelming nervous and physical exhaustion, or he had contracted
malaria in the swamps of the Guadalupe. Despite every effort of the
will, he began to shake with cold, and he knew that a chill was coming.
He had retained his blankets, his frontiersman's foresight not deserting
him, and now, knowing that he could not continue his flight for the
present, he sought the deepest part of the thicket. He crept into a
place so dense that it would have been suited for an animal's den, and
lying down there he wrapped the blankets tightly about himself, his
rifle and his ammunition.
In spite of his clothing and the warm blankets he grew colder and
colder. His teeth chattered and he shivered all over. He would not have
minded that so much, but his head ached with great violence, and the
least light hurt his eyes. It seemed to him the culmination. Never had
he been more miserable, more lost of both body and soul.
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