Lowering himself
from the window, he lay down on the ground to gather a little strength
for flight. But first he must bind up his feet, in order that his blood
might not betray whither he went. Taking off his cotton shirt, he tore
it in half, and wrapped each foot in a piece. The touch of the cloth to
his wounds was like fire; but by this time his nerves were benumbed to
such a degree that he scarcely noticed it.
Going on hands and knees, he started to creep over the distance lying
between him and the fringe of trees near the presidio. There was a good
half-mile, and Pomponio feared he could not cover it. Four times he fell
to the ground unconscious, four times he revived and pushed on with all
the strength he could muster. Fortunately he had started early in the
night, for he needed every minute of the darkness. Foot after foot, yard
after yard, he crept along, the presidio and the other buildings
receding in the increasing distance behind him, while the welcome woods
and hills, his refuge, loomed up, higher and darker, as he neared them.
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