Again he was seized with fright, a sort of stupid crushing terror.

He looked distrustfully round the room, where he distinguished shreds of whitish light.

Then gently, with anxious, hasty precautions, he went to bed again, and there huddling himself together, hid himself, as if to escape a weapon, a knife that threatened him.
The blood had flown violently to his neck, which was burning him.

He put his hand there, and beneath his fingers felt the scar of the bite he had received from Camille.

He had almost forgotten this wound and was terrified when he found it on his skin, where it seemed to be gnawing into his flesh.