I found every movement painful in that rough and matted place.

For one thing, I made an unholy noise.

My tender limbs shrank from every stone and twig, and again and again I rolled over with the pain of it.

Sweat blinded my eyes, and the fatigues of yesterday made my breath labour like a foundered horse.
My first plan--if the instinct of blind terror can be called a plan-- was to lie hid in some thick place and trust to getting the first shot at my enemy when he found me.

But I realized that I could not do this.
My broken nerves would not suffer me to lie hidden.