It was midnight.

A fire was blazing in front of Hosea's tent, and he sat alone before it, gazing mournfully now into the flames and anon over the distant country.

Inside the canvas walls Ephraim was lying on his uncle's camp-bed.
The surgeon who attended the soldiers had bandaged the youth's wounds, given him an invigorating cordial, and commanded him to keep still; for the violence with which the fever had attacked the lad alarmed him.
But in spite of the leech's prescription Ephraim continued restless.
Sometimes Kasana's image rose before his eyes, increasing the fever of his over-heated blood, sometimes he recalled the counsel to become a warrior like his uncle.

The advice seemed wise--at least he tried to persuade himself that it was--because it promised honor and fame, but in reality he wished to follow it because it would bring her for whom his soul yearned nearer to him.
Then his pride rose as he remembered the insults which she and her father had heaped on those to whom by every tie of blood and affection, he belonged.

His hand clenched as he thought of the ruined home of his grandfather, whom he had ever regarded one of the noblest of men.