Blotched and swollen from the never-ending attack of flies and mosquitoes his face seemed twice its natural size, and it ached and stung.
On one side, then, was this physical torture; on the other the old hell, terribly augmented at this crisis, in his mind.

It seemed that thought and imagination had never been so swift.

If death found him presently, how would it come?
Would he get decent burial or be left for the peccaries and the coyotes?
Would his people ever know where he had fallen?
How wretched, how miserable his state! It was cowardly, it was monstrous for him to cling longer to this doomed life.

Then the hate in his heart, the hellish hate of these men on his trail--that was like a scourge.

He felt no longer human.