The horses had lain down, and the Countess, as I perceived by her deep breathing and her not answering me, was asleep. The thunder and lightning were less near and less powerful, but the rain still fell, now decreasingly and now with suddenly regathered force. At last I too slept.
I awoke during the night, and changed from a sitting to a lying position. When I next opened my eyes, the light of dawn was streaming in at the door. The storm had ceased, birds were twittering outside. I was aching and hungry. The Countess's face, as she slept, betokened weakness and pain. I went and adjusted a saddle-flap that had got awry under her. As I did so, she awoke.
"I am so tired," she said in a slow, small voice, like that of a weary child.
"You are faint for want of food," said I. "You have eaten nothing since noon yesterday, and very little then."
Thinking I wished to hurry our departure in search of breakfast, she shook her head and murmured weakly:
"I am not able to go on just now. I assure you, I cannot even stand. All strength seems to have gone out of me." As if to illustrate, she raised her hand a few inches: it trembled a moment, then fell as if powerless.
It was plain that she was, whether from fatigue and privation alone, or from illness also, in a helpless state. It would be cruelty and folly to put her on horseback. And without at least the refreshment of food and wine, how was her condition to be improved so that she might leave this place?
After some thought and talk, I said:
"The only thing is for me to go and get you food and wine, while you stay here. But, alas, what danger you may be in while I am gone! If anybody should come here and find you!"
"Nobody may come. Surely there are many days when this place is left deserted."