And when it passed Aldebaran lay prone upon the earth borne down by rocks and fallen trees.

Lay as if dead until two passing goat-herds found him and bore him down in pity to their hut.
Long weeks went by before the fever craze and pains began to leave him, and when at last he crawled out in the sun, he found himself a poor misshapen thing, all maimed and marred, with twisted back and face all drawn awry, and foot that dragged.

One hand hung nerveless by his side.
Never more would it be strong enough to use the Sword.

He could not even draw it from its scabbard.
As in a daze he looked upon himself, thinking some hideous nightmare had him in its hold.

"This is not _I_!" he cried, in horror at the thought.
Then as the truth began to pierce his soul, he sat with starting eyes and lips that gibbered in cold fear, the while they still persisted in their fierce denial.