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CHAPTER VII.
THE NORTH POINT OF PORTLAND.
He ran until he was breathless, at random, desperate, over the plain
into the snow, into space. His flight warmed him. He needed it. Without
the run and the fright he had died.
When his breath failed him he stopped, but he dared not look back. He
fancied that the birds would pursue him, that the dead man had undone
his chain and was perhaps hurrying behind him, and no doubt the gibbet
itself was descending the hill, running after the dead man; he feared to
see these things if he turned his head.
When he had somewhat recovered his breath he resumed his flight.
To account for facts does not belong to childhood. He received
impressions which were magnified by terror, but he did not link them
together in his mind, nor form any conclusion on them. He was going on,
no matter how or where; he ran in agony and difficulty as one in a
dream. During the three hours or so since he had been deserted, his
onward progress, still vague, had changed its purpose. At first it was a
search; now it was a flight. He no longer felt hunger nor cold--he felt
fear. One instinct had given place to another. To escape was now his
whole thought--to escape from what? From everything. On all sides life
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