CHAPTER LXII.
_-_Capital_O.png)
N the sixth day from that she reached her home. She knew not how she reached it: knew no more than does the hunted beast, that runs panting, sinking, almost dying at each step, and yet runs on to die at home. She had no consciousness of what she did; her hand bled, her brain turned, her feet stumbled, yet she kept on, with only that one instinct of the stricken doe left in her, to reach her home and die there.
She lost all beauty, all youth, all likeness of herself. She crept on with the torpid movement of old age; in her heart she carried its despair.
Everywhere around her, in the buoyant clouds, in the mountain snows, in the green-
