Page:Frank Owen - Rare Earth, 1931.djvu/93

 the feeling that he was a prisoner persisted. He wanted light even if he must die to attain it.

In no matter what direction he turned all was blackness. There was no escape. The cool night air rather than alleviating seemed to intensify his fever. He was on the verge of delirium. He could not think clearly. All that he was conscious of, the supreme effort of his will was to get away. And so he started running, running through the fields without any sense of direction, his only desire being to reach some place where there was a ray of light Once or twice his foot caught in a tuft of grass or the protruding root of a bush and he fell. Each time he rose to his feet again and emitted a savage cry. Nothing must stop him, nothing. It was a gallant decision though fruitless, for suddenly he ran full-tilt into one of the barns. The force of the impact was so terrific he was momentarily stunned. As he slipped to the ground, consciousness left him. It was well. For a moment at least his pitiful rebellion was subdued.