SON OF THE WIND
everything was quiet, harmless. He could have lain where he was for ever and been untouched. The curtain was drifting lower and growing thinner, and through it he began to see the outline of a black lump.
He sat up. The sharpness of the action made him dizzy, and sent pains darting through him. He groaned—not for his own body's sake. A hand came under his head as though he had been ill. Yet he wasn't ill. He was certain of that. He only felt as though he had been pitched down from one world to another. He took the flask presented to his lips and swallowed what was in it, and waited for nerve and strength. But the reaction was faint. His feet were like lead, his veins were cold. He crawled painfully on hands and knees across the intervening space. His eyes were fixed on the outline which was becoming sharper. Then the veil altogether disappeared. In fact he had entered it, and the thing it had concealed had become strange and plain. It was stretched out upon earth, the four feet extended toward him. They looked large and heavy, and he could see the hollow inside the hoofs. The legs were thin. The curve of the barrel stood high off the ground. He laid his hand on it. It was warm and soft, and singularly still. He lifted him-
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