Where the underbrush halted him he sheered off into the open timber, feeling his way, falling sometimes, lying where he fell for a while till the scourge of necessity lashed him into motion again.
About midnight the rain increased to a deluge, slackened fitfully, and died out in a light rattle of thunder; star after star broke out through the dainty vapours overhead; the trees sighed and grew quiet.

For a while drumming drops from the branches filled the silence with a musical tattoo, then there remained no sound save, far away in the darkness, the muffled roar of some brook, brimming bank-high with the April rain.

And Hamil, soaked, exhausted, and believing he could sleep, went back to the house.

Toward morning sleep came.
He awoke restless and depressed; and the next morning he was not well; and not quite as well the next, remaining in his room with a headache, pestered by Portlaw and retinues of servants bearing delicacies on trays.
He had developed a cold, not a very bad one, and on the third day he resumed his duties in the woods with Phelps and Baker, the surveyors, and young Hastings.
The dull, stupid physical depression hung on to him; so did his cold; and he found breathing difficult at night.

The weather had turned very raw and harsh, culminating in a flurry of snow.
Then one morning he appeared at breakfast looking so ghastly that Portlaw became alarmed.