Perfect rage, like perfect love, casts out fear.

He rejoiced in his own misery, in his own danger.

His life hung on a thread; any instant might hurl him from that cairn, a blackened corpse.
What better end?
Let it come! He was Prometheus on the peak of Caucasus, hurling defiance at the unjust Jove! His hopes, his love, his very honour--curse it!--ruined! Let the lightning stroke come! He were a coward to shrink from it.

Let him face the worst, unprotected, bare-headed, naked, and do battle, himself, and nothing but himself, against the universe! And, as men at such moments will do, in the mad desire to free the self-tortured spirit from some unseen and choking bond, he began wildly tearing off his clothes.
But merciful nature brought relief, and stopped him in his mad efforts, or he had been a frozen corpse long ere the dawn.

His hands, stiff with cold, refused to obey him; as he delayed he was saved.