My wife had never stirred since she fell by the coup de soleil, and merely respired about five times in a minute.

It was impossible to remain; the people would have starved.
She was laid gently upon her litter, and we started forward on our funereal course.

I was ill and broken-hearted, and I followed by her side through the long day's march over wild park lands and streams, with thick forest and deep marshy bottoms, over undulating hills and through valleys of tall papyrus rushes, which, as we brushed through them on our melancholy way, waved over the litter like the black plumes of a hearse.
We halted at a village, and again the night was passed in watching.

I was wet and coated with mud from the swampy marsh, and shivered with ague; but the cold within was greater than all.

No change had taken place; she had never moved.