He rejoiced in this period of rest, of the nerves, rather than purely
physical. He had been keyed so high that now he relaxed entirely,
and soon lay perfectly flat, but with the shotgun still clasped in his
arms. He had a soft couch. Under him were the dead leaves of last year,
and over him was the pleasant gloom of thick foliage, already turning
brown. The bird sang on. His clear and beautiful note came from a point
directly over his head, but Harry could not see his tiny body among the
leaves. He became, for a little while, more interested in trying to see
him than in hearing his pursuers.
It was annoying that such a volume of sound should come from a body that
could be hidden by a leaf. If a man could shout in proportion to his own
size he might be heard eight to ten miles away. It was an interesting
speculation and he pursued it. While he was pursuing it his mind relaxed
more and more and traveled farther and farther away from his flight and
hiding. Then his heavy eyelids pulled down, and, while his pursuers yet
searched the thickets for him, he slept.
But his other self, which men had thought of as far back as Socrates,
kept guard. When he had slept an hour a tiny voice in his ear, no louder
than the ticking of a watch, told him to awake, that danger was near.
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