Sometime during that nightmare he slept, his weariness of body
overcoming him. He awoke, dazed, to find a hand clutching his mop of
hair, pulling his head up.
"You sleep--you do not fear, Foscar's dog-one?"
Groggily Ross blinked up. Fear? Sure, he was afraid. Fear, he realized
with a clear thrust of consciousness such as he had seldom experienced
before, had always stalked beside him, slept in his bed. But he had
never surrendered to it, and he would not now if he could help it.
"I do not fear!" He threw that creed into Ennar's face in one hot boast.
He _would_ not fear!
"We shall see if you speak so loudly when the fire bites you!" The other
spat, yet in that oath there was a reluctant recognition of Ross's
courage.
"When the fire bites...." That sang in Ross's head. There was something
else--if he could only remember! Up to that moment he had kept a poor
little shadow of hope. It is always impossible--he was conscious again
with that strange clarity of mind--for a man to face his own death
honestly.
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