A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes. I bent over him. I told the soldier how he must go by the passage, and he found it and brought it here. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. If he succeeds there, I do not know how I can prove myself.
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