She crushed her hands against her head, but the sound came from
within and would not be stilled. She buried her face in the leaves, but the
visions pressed faster before her. The son of Leofwine and the drunken
feast--the girl outside the tent--the Jotun within it--her terrible young
guardian--the battle-madness--whichever way she looked, a new spectre
confronted her. Helpless in their grip, she tossed to and fro in agony--to and
fro.
Though it was so tortured that she could not tell it from her waking thoughts,
sleep must have come to her; for when at last she reached the point where she
could endure it no longer and struggled up, panting, to her elbow, to try to
recall herself by a sight of those about her, she found that the hum of
excited voices was stilled, and the silence throbbed with the deep breathing
of sleepers. From under the canopy of darkness the fiery spears had dropped
away, leaving the thick folds sagging lower and lower. Swarming under its
shelter, the shadow-shapes were closing in upon her.
For a while she watched them absently; then a whim of her tortured brain
poisoned them also. They became terrible nameless Things, mouthing at her,
darting upon her. She drew her eyes resolutely away and set herself to
listening to the breathing that throbbed in a dozen keys through the silence.
Almost at her feet, the Etheling was stretched out in his cloak, motionless as
the fallen tree.
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