The Bushman’s spud, the one he uses for assassination or to despatch his prey, is poisoned.  It is a lingering poison, and takes several hours to produce its effect; but no remedy is known, and many who have escaped from the cowardly blow have crawled to the path only to expire in torture.  There was no denying that what the retainer proposed was the only thing that could be done.  The warder had meantime brought a bucket of water, of which the poor creature drank eagerly.  Felix could not do it; he could not slay the creature which had carried him so long, and which twice that night had saved him, and was now to die, as it were, in his place.  He could not consent to it; he led the horse towards home, but he was weak or weary, and could not be got beyond the Pen.

There the group assembled around him.  Felix ordered the scratch to be cleansed, while he ran over in his mind every possible remedy.  He gave strict orders that he should not be despatched, and then hastened to the house.  He undid with trembling hands the thongs that bound his chest, and took out his manuscripts, hoping against hope that among the many notes he had made there might be something.  But there was nothing, or in his excitement he overlooked it.  Remembering that Oliver was a great authority upon horses, he went into his room and tried to wake him.  Oliver, weary with his ride, and not as yet having slept off the effects of the feast, could not be roused.

Felix left him and hurried back to the Pen.  Weary as he was, he watched by the horse till the larks began to sing and the dawn was at hand.  As yet he had not shown any severe symptoms except twitching of the limbs, and a constant thirst, which water could not quench.  But suddenly he fell, and the old retainer warned them all to stand away, for he would bite anything that was near.  His words were instantly fulfilled; he rolled, and kicked, and bit at everything within reach.  Seeing this agony, Felix could no longer delay.  He strung his bow, but he could not fit the arrow to the string, he missed the notch, so much did his hands shake.  He motioned to the retainers who had gathered around, and one of them thrust his spear into the horse behind his shoulder.

When Felix at last returned to his chamber he could not but reflect, as the sun rose and the beams entered, that every omen had been against him; the adder under foot, the bandit’s bolt, the Bushman’s poisoned point.  He slept till noon, and, upon going out, unrefreshed and still weary, he found that they had already buried the horse, and ordered a mound to be raised above his grave.  The day passed slowly; he wandered about the castle and the enclosed grounds, seeking comfort and finding none.  His mind vacillated; he recalled all that Aurora had said, persuading him not to do anything in haste or despair.  Yet he could not continue in his present condition.  Another day went by, and still undecided and doubting, he remained at home.