dowed with a strange consciousness, opened its dull eyes; and Sir George felt that his doom was sealed in that look. The suffering grew more acute; his knees failed under him, and he sank heavily on the ground.
Still, life was strong within him; he struggled with his agony; he thought if he could but reach home he might have aid, and live: but, even while he struggled, there was that within which told him his struggles were vain. He was growing delirious with the internal torture, with the intolerable burning thirst; yet his delirium turned upon real objects; the pleasures of existence crowded upon his imagination—he saw his youth, as it were, distinct before him; he thought of his wealth, it could not now buy him even a cup of cold water; then beautiful forms, but all with fiendish eyes, gathered round him: some offered him golden fruits; others, purple wine: he stretched his parched mouth towards them, and they melted into the wan air with a mocking laugh.
Consciousness returned again; he saw the first red of the morning beginning to colour the
