We suffered unbearable torture. Hour after hour we were jerked over the
ground. Our clothes were stripped from our backs, our faces were torn
and bloody from the thorns, and our tormented flesh protested through
every nerve against the treatment. Once Holman put a question in a
hoarse whisper.
"Where are they taking us?" he asked.
"God knows," I gasped.
"It's my fault, Verslun."
"Why?" I groaned.
"I missed him! I missed him! I----"
His voice died away in a choking sob, and I imagine he swooned away. As
we were being towed by the legs, I guessed that Holman was suffering
excruciating pain from the limb that he had injured by the fall from the
maupei tree, and the lapse into unconsciousness came as a blessed
relief. To me the rush through the jungle seemed a superlative
nightmare. My mind played tricks with me. I thought that the three black
forms, leaping along in front, were a trinity of devils who were ordered
to torture me for my stupidity in allowing Edith Herndon and her sister
to leave the yacht. Every creeper became a whip wielded by a mocking
phantom, and I am forced to confess that I have a vivid recollection of
crying to heaven for pardon for my criminal negligence.
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