But always Ross knew
that he must go on, using that thick stream of running water as a guide
to his final goal, the sea.
After a long while those spaces of mental clarity grew longer, appearing
closer together. He dug small shelled things from under stones along the
river and ate them avidly. Once he clubbed a rabbit and feasted. He
sucked birds' eggs from a nest hidden among some reeds--just enough to
keep his gaunt body going, though his gray eyes were now set in what was
almost a death's-head.
Ross did not know just when he realized that he was again being hunted.
It started with an uneasiness which differed from his previous
fever-bred hallucinations. This was an inner pulling, a growing
compulsion to turn and retrace his way back toward the mountains to meet
something, or someone, waiting for him on the backward path.
But Ross kept on, fearing sleep now and fighting it. For once he had
lain down to rest and had wakened on his feet, heading back as if that
compulsion had the power to take over his body when his waking will was
off guard.
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