rolled, and kicked, and bit at everything within reach. Seeing this
agony, Felix could no longer delay. He strung his bow, but he could not
fit the arrow to the string, he missed the notch, so much did his hands
shake. He motioned to the retainers who had gathered around, and one of
them thrust his spear into the horse behind his shoulder.

When Felix at last returned to his chamber he could not but reflect, as
the sun rose and the beams entered, that every omen had been against
him; the adder under foot, the bandit's bolt, the Bushman's poisoned
point. He slept till noon, and, upon going out, unrefreshed and still
weary, he found that they had already buried the horse, and ordered a
mound to be raised above his grave. The day passed slowly; he wandered
about the castle and the enclosed grounds, seeking comfort and finding
none. His mind vacillated; he recalled all that Aurora had said,
persuading him not to do anything in haste or despair. Yet he could not
continue in his present condition. Another day went by, and still
undecided and doubting, he remained at home.

Oliver began to jest at him; had he abandoned the expedition? Oliver
could not understand indecision; perhaps he did not see so many sides to
the question, his mind was always quickly made up. Action was his forte,
not thought. The night came, and still Felix lingered, hesitating.




CHAPTER XIII

SAILING AWAY