As they neared their journey’s end Waldo became more and more perturbed.
During the last night horrible visions of Flatfoot and Korth haunted his dreams. He saw the great, hairy beasts rushing upon him in all the ferocity of their primeval savagery—tearing him limb from limb in their bestial rage.
With a shriek he awoke.
To the girl’s startled inquiry he replied that he had been but dreaming.
“Did you dream of Flatfoot and Korth?” she laughed. “Of the things that you will do to them tomorrow?”
“Yes,” replied Waldo; “I dreamed of Flatfoot and Korth.” But the girl did not see how he trembled and hid his head in the hollow of his arm.
The last day’s march was the most agonizing experience of Waldo Emerson’s life. He was positive that he was going to his death, but to him the horror of the thing lay more in the manner of his coming death than in the thought of death itself. As a matter of fact, he had again reached a point when he would have welcomed death.
The future held for him nothing but a life of discomfort and misery and constant mental anguish, superinduced by the condition of awful fear under which he must drag out his existence in this strange and terrible land.
