He was sure that he was dying, for a numbness, an absence of feeling, had stolen up from his feet and possessed his legs. He essayed a bitter smile. He was more chagrined than afraid, for this was an ignominious way to pass, here in a nameless swamp, alone, not even beset by one worthy enemy. And perhaps when he thought he smiled, he was merely baring his teeth in that manner that certain neurotoxins leave their corpses always....
Someone was shaking him brutally and insistently, and someone was repeating his name, over and over. He knew the voice at once, for it had been lately in his thoughts.
"Get up!" she said.
"I can't."
"You must—or die. Get up now and try to walk. Come, I'll help you."
She did help him, and with her support he managed to get to his knees and then to his feet. He walked.
Afterward, there was a kind of delirium. He remembered bitter tasting capsules which she made him swallow later on in the daub-hut, but he did not recall having arrived there. He only knew that it was pleasant to have her cool hands on his forehead. The hands seemed to fill a vast, fundamental need. And this was out-of-character for Lieutenant Wellesley.
After a while he was lucid, and was surprised to note that, as at their other meeting, the darkness was absolute. "It's night," he said. "Very dark."
"Yes."