He crashed wildly through, stopped to rub his eyes, and looked again, and, disappointed, saw yet again the plain little brown wren bird, there!, on a branch, so small, so insignificant, singing sweetly.
Where! Where was the woman who called to him?!!
He looked around, and staggered off, heartbroken and despairing.
Where was she?
He heard her again, far off, singing, calling like an eternal, winged Holy Angel of the Invisible God, and as he turned to go to her he felt his limbs whipped by the passing branches and weighing like lead, and he slowed helplessly, becoming tired, so deathly tired.
The siren, he thought feverishly, as he staggered and fell headlong, unable to catch himself.
Where was the siren?!!
"Si'Wren," remanded wise old L'acoci in a hushed and quavering crone's voice as dry as dead leaves. "Si'Wren! Come to sleep now. Your brave Slavemaster will live."
As she ceased her crooning, Si'Wren looked up at the withered countenance of old L'acoci by the light of the cooking fire coals with a tired, dreamy stare, and sighed in a heedless shrug. Then she turned her eyes softly back again, looking compassionately down upon her precious Habrunt, who had finally stopped his thrashing, and fallen into a deep slumber again.
Ageless Habrunt as half a man was yet even now all the more to her in his ruin, than any ten ordinary men in their youth and prime could possibly have boasted.