My imagination was still limping, and I foresaw only a death of pain, not the horrid incidents of its preparation.

Death I could face, and I summoned up every shred of my courage.

Ringan's voice was still in my ear, his airy songs still sang themselves in my brain.
I would not shame him, but oh! how I envied him lying, all troubles past, in his quiet grave! The night was mild, and the yellow radiance of the moon seemed almost warmth-giving.

I sat on that log in a sort of stupor, watching my enemies preparing my entertainment.

One thing I noted, that there were no women in the camp.