Once he fell to his knees and buried both
hands in the cool, moist earth where a thread of stream trickled from a
pool. The muck seemed to draw out a little of the agony while he drank
with a fever thirst.
Ross seemed to move through a haze which lifted at intervals during
which he noted his surroundings, was able to recall a little of what lay
behind him, and to keep to the correct route. However, the gaps of time
in between were forever lost to him. He stumbled along the banks of a
river and fronted a bear fishing. The massive beast rose on its hind
legs, growled, and Ross walked by it uncaring, unmenaced by the puzzled
animal.
Sometimes he slept through the dark periods which marked the nights, or
he stumbled along under the moon, nursing his hands against his breast,
whimpering a little when his foot slipped and the jar of that mishap ran
through his body. Once he heard singing, only to realize that it was
himself who sang hoarsely a melody which would be popular thousands of
years later in the world through which he wavered.
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