He was trying to think of Veranilda, but all through the night her image eluded him, and her name left him cold.

He was capable only of hatred.

At daybreak he slept heavily; the men, approaching him and looking at his haggard face, thought better to let him rest, and only after sunrise did he awake.

He was angry that they had not aroused him sooner, got speedily to horse, and rode off almost at the same speed as yesterday.

Now, at all events, he drew near to his goal; for a ride of an hour or two he needed not to spare his beast; sternly he called to his men to follow him close.
And all at once, as though his brain were restored by the freshness of the morning, he grasped the thought which had eluded him.