Home-sickness has
never been my failing, but all at once I had a vision of my own land,
the cradle of my race, well-beloved and unforgotten over the leagues of
sea. Somehow the thought strengthened me. I had now something besides
the thought of Ringan to keep my heart firm. If all hell laid hold on
me, I must stand fast for the honour of my own folk.
The edge of the pile was lit, and the flames crackled through the hay
below the faggots. The smoke rose in clouds, and made me sneeze.
Suddenly there came a desperate tickling in my scalp where the knife
had pricked. Little things began to tease me, notably the ache of my
swollen wrists, and the intolerable cramp in my legs.
Then came a sharp burst of pain as a tongue of flame licked on my
anointed ankles. Anguish like hell-fire ran through my frame. I think I
would have cried out if my tongue had had the power. Suddenly I
envisaged the dreadful death which was coming. All was wiped from my
mind, all thought of Ringan, and home, and honour; everything but this
awful fear. Happily the smoke hid my face, which must have been
distraught with panic. The seconds seemed endless. I prayed that
unconsciousness would come. I prayed for death, I prayed for respite. I
was mad with the furious madness of a tortured animal, and the immortal
soul had fled from me and left only a husk of pitiful and shrinking
flesh.
Pages:
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335