He looked at one of his
hands. It was thin, like the band of a man wasted with fever,
and the blue veins stood out on the back of it. He could
scarcely believe that the hand was his own. But after the first
spasm of weakness was over, the precious will returned. He could
walk. Strength enough to permit him to hobble along had returned
to the ankle at last, and mind must control the rest of his
nervous system, however weakened it might be. He must seek food.
He withdrew into the farthest recess of his covert, wrapped the
blanket tightly about his body, and lay still for a long time.
He was preparing both mind and body for the supreme effort. He
knew that everything hung now on the surviving remnants of his
skill and courage.
Weakened by shock and several days of fasting, he had no great
reserve now except the mental, and he used that to the utmost.
It was proof of his youthful greatness that it stood the last
test. As he lay there, the final ounce of will and courage came.
Strength which was of the mind rather than of the body flowed
back into his veins; he felt able to dare and to do; the pale
aspect of the world went away, and once more he was Henry Ware,
alert, skillful, and always triumphant.
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