The intense blackness all about dazed him; he retained no sense of
direction, scarcely any memory of where he was. His body, bruised and
strained, pained him severely; his head throbbed as from fever. Little
by little the exhausted breath came back, and with it a slow
realization of his situation. Had he killed Burke? He stared down
toward the spot where he knew the body lay, but could perceive nothing.
The mystery of the dark suddenly unnerved him; he could feel his hands
tremble violently as he groped cautiously along the smooth surface of
the rock. He experienced a shrinking, nervous dread of coming into
contact with that man lying there beneath the black mantle, that
hideous, silent form, perhaps done to death by his hands. It was a
revolt of the soul. A moment he actually thought he was losing his
mind, feverish fancies playing grim tricks before his strained,
agonized vision, imagination peopling the black void with a riot of
grotesque figures.
He gripped himself slowly and sternly, his jaws set, his tingling
nerves mastered by the resolute dominance of an aroused will.
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