A childish rage assailed Hugh, and he cursed:
‘Twas like a broken spirit’s outcry, tossed
Upon hell’s burlesque sabbath for the lost,
And briefly space seemed crowded with the voice.
To wait and die, to move and die—what choice?
Hugh chose not, yet he crawled; though more and more
He felt the futile strife was nearly o’er.
And as he went, a muffled rumbling grew,
More felt than heard; for long it puzzled Hugh.
Somehow ‘twas coextensive with his thirst,