Then she patted his
forehead with the tea-soaked rag, and from her heart and soul arose in
her throat soft compassionate intonations, so low that only his ears
could hear her as she leaned close, hovering over him with tender eyes
and a softened look.
Something seemed to be bothering Habrunt in his sleep as he murmured to
himself unintelligibly, but although Si'Wren tried her utmost she could
not seem to make it out.
In the delirium of a feverish dream, Habrunt heard a voice calling
sweetly in the jungle. It was the voice of some incomprehensible
vision, a beauty, a paragon of virtue, a woman like unto no other such
as he had ever seen in all of his unfathomable years.
He searched for her, sometimes walking, sometimes running a few steps,
expecting any moment to break through the dense foliage of the lush
greenery and glimpse the unearthly vision of her eternal spirit,
ecstatically alive, wild, and free, as the mysterious woman with a
voice like an angel roamed the deep jungle, seemingly heedless of it's
wild beasts and other horrors, entirely unharmed, and moreover,
unaffected, as if it were her rightful kingdom and the savage beasts
her royal subjects.
But every time he managed to brush the vines and fern fronds aside with
a burly arm to reveal what was beyond with a sweep of his haunted eyes,
he saw only a little brown wren bird, singing from a branch across the
little thicket-like clearing.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200