As he
tottered along, he asked himself if he should eat of the fruit he
carried ere she had tasted of the banquet. He drew one of the
rosy-cheeked, juicy figs from the handkerchief. It was no loss of
time--no deferring of the succor she needed--to eat as he walked; run he
could not, though he fain would have quickened his tardy pace. It would
restore his strength, and enable him the better to protect and rescue
her. It was not wrong, though, from the deep well of his affection, came
up something like a reproach for his selfishness. He ate the fruit. The
effect was, or seemed to be, magical. He thought he could feel it
imparting strength to his exhausted form. Again he ate, and in the
pleasant sensation to his unsated palate, his imagination, as much as
the fruit, nerved his muscles, and he walked with a firmer step.
He had not completed one-half the distance back, when he discovered two
men in the vicinity of the jail. A cold shudder nearly paralyzed him.
Was his labor all in vain? Had he with so much trial and suffering
effected his escape, only to be incarcerated again? The thought was
maddening, and he resolved to die rather than be returned to the
dungeon.
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