had begun to wander again, and to be perplexed by hallucinations,
while his lucid intervals grew rarer and shorter.

He was awakened once from a faint by a wheeze close in his ear.
The wolf leaped lamely back, losing its footing and falling in its
weakness. It was ludicrous, but he was not amused. Nor was he
even afraid. He was too far gone for that. But his mind was for
the moment clear, and he lay and considered. The ship was no more
than four miles away. He could see it quite distinctly when he
rubbed the mists out of his eyes, and he could see the white sail
of a small boat cutting the water of the shining sea. But he could
never crawl those four miles. He knew that, and was very calm in
the knowledge. He knew that he could not crawl half a mile. And
yet he wanted to live. It was unreasonable that he should die
after all he had undergone. Fate asked too much of him. And,
dying, he declined to die. It was stark madness, perhaps, but in
the very grip of Death he defied Death and refused to die.

He closed his eyes and composed himself with infinite precaution.
He steeled himself to keep above the suffocating languor that
lapped like a rising tide through all the wells of his being. It
was very like a sea, this deadly languor, that rose and rose and
drowned his consciousness bit by bit. Sometimes he was all but
submerged, swimming through oblivion with a faltering stroke; and
again, by some strange alchemy of soul, he would find another shred
of will and strike out more strongly.

Without movement he lay on his back, and he could hear, slowly
drawing near and nearer, the wheezing intake and output of the sick
wolf's breath. It drew closer, ever closer, through an infinitude