It was the thought that he had lost his chance to reach the river that cleared his head as he swayed over Mercer.
He heard running feet.

He saw figures approaching swiftly through the starlight.

And he was too weak to fight or run.

The little strength he had saved up, and which he had planned to use so carefully in his flight, was gone.

His wound, weeks in bed, muscles unaccustomed to the terrific exertion he had made in these moments of his vengeance, left him now panting and swaying as the running footsteps came nearer.
His head swam.