CHAPTER VII.
"Fight on, my men, Sir Andrew sayes, A little Ime hurt, but yett not slaine; He but lye downe and bleede awhile, And then Ile rise and fight againe." Ballad of Sir Andrew Barton.
But I could not remain where I was any longer, though the daylight was hateful to me, and the thought of the great, innocent, bold sunrise unendurable.

Here there was no well to cool my face, smarting with the bitterness of my own tears.

Nor would I have washed in the well of that grotto, had it flowed clear as the rivers of Paradise.

I rose, and feebly left the sepulchral cave.

I took my way I knew not whither, but still towards the sunrise.