It is an impotent movement, and yet is done consciously; for the trunk of the body, which was beginning more and more to yield, now begins to turn clumsily backward; the left hand clutches the soil; the arm is trying to heave, to lift.

But the weight is too heavy, the shaft inside too firmly and too deeply rooted.
Nevertheless the hips succeed in rising; the trunk follows; then it tumbles over on the back, contracts with a moan of pain and suffering, and lies there trembling with spasmodic shivers.
Topanashka has made this superhuman effort for a purpose.

He feels that his wound is severe, that his strength is gone; his senses are darkened and his thoughts confused.

Still there is a spark of life left, and that spark demands that he should attempt to see whence came the arrow that so terribly lacerates his breast.

But as he has fallen over heavily, the point of the arrow has been pressed deeper.