Another pointed to my raw shins, and wound some kind of
soft healing fibre round my feet and ankles. I did my best to keep a
stout face, and when the shot came, I waved my hand to them and plunged
boldly into the leafy darkness.
But out of the presence of men my courage departed, and I became the
prey of dismal fear. How was I, with my babyish woodcraft, to contend
for a moment against an Indian who was as subtle and velvet-footed as a
wild beast? The wood was mostly of great oaks and chestnuts, with a
dense scrub of vines and undergrowth, and in the steepest parts of the
hill-side many mossgrown rocks. I found every movement painful in that
rough and matted place. For one thing, I made an unholy noise. My
tender limbs shrank from every stone and twig, and again and again I
rolled over with the pain of it. Sweat blinded my eyes, and the
fatigues of yesterday made my breath labour like a foundered horse.
My first plan--if the instinct of blind terror can be called a plan--
was to lie hid in some thick place and trust to getting the first shot
at my enemy when he found me. But I realized that I could not do this.
My broken nerves would not suffer me to lie hidden. Better the torture
of movement than such terrible patience.
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