He knelt down beside Murphy, unbuckled the leather despatch-bag, and
rebuckled it across his own shoulder. Then he set to work to revive
the prostrate man. The eyes, when opened, stared up at him, wild and
glaring; the ugly face bore the expression of abject fear. The man was
no longer violent; he had become a child, frightened at the dark. His
ceaseless babbling, his incessant cries of terror, only rendered more
precarious any attempt at pressing forward through a region overrun
with hostiles. But Hampton had resolved.
Securely strapping Murphy to his saddle, and packing all their
remaining store of provisions upon one horse, leaving the other to
follow or remain behind as it pleased, he advanced directly into the
hills, steering by aid of the stars, his left hand ever on Murphy's
bridle rein, his low voice of expostulation seeking to calm the other's
wild fancies and to curb his violent speech. It was a weird, wild ride
through the black night, unknown ground under foot, unseen dangers upon
every hand. Murphy's aberrations changed from shrieking terror to a
wild, uncontrollable hilarity, with occasional outbursts of violent
anger, when it required all Hampton's iron will and muscle to conquer
him.
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