Page:Edgar Huntly, or The Sleep Walker.djvu/248

 "Alas! it is doubtful whether he exists! If he lives, he is no longer to be feared: but he lives not; famine and remorse have utterly consumed him."

"Famine!—remorse! You talk in riddles!"

"He has concealed himself in the desert; he has abjured the intercourse of mankind; he has shut himself in caverns, where famine must inevitably expedite that death for which he longs as the only solace of his woes. To no imagination are his offences blacker and more odious than to his own. I had hopes of rescuing him from this fate; but my own infirmities and errors have afforded me sufficient occupation."

Sarsefield renewed his imprecations on the memory of that unfortunate man, and his enquiries as to the circumstances that led him into this remote district. His enquiries were not to be answered by one in my present condition: my languors and fatigues had now gained a pitch that was insupportable. The wound in my face had been chafed and inflamed by the cold water and the bleak air; and the pain attending it would no longer suffer my attention to stray. I sunk upon the floor, and entreated him to afford me the respite of a few hours' repose.

He was sensible of the deplorableness of my condition, and chid himself for the negligence of which he had already been guilty. He lifted me to the bed, and deliberated on the mode he should pursue for my relief. Some mollifying application to my wound was immediately necessary; but in our present lonely condition it was not at hand: it could only be procured from a distance; it was proper, therefore, to hasten to the nearest inhabited dwelling, which belonged to one, by name Walton, and supply himself with such medicines as could be found.

Meanwhile, there was no danger of molestation and intrusion. There was reason to expect the speedy return of those who had gone in the pursuit of the savages: this was their place of rendezvous, and hither they appointed to reassemble before the morrow's dawn. The distance of the neighbouring farm was small, and Sarsefield promised to be expeditious: he left me to myself and my own ruminations.