Why should I dwell upon the rage of fever, and the effusions of delirium?
Carwin was the phantom that pursued my dreams, the giant oppressor under whose arm I was for ever on the point of being crushed.
Strenuous muscles were required to hinder my flight, and hearts of steel to withstand the eloquence of my fears.

In vain I called upon them to look upward, to mark his sparkling rage and scowling contempt.

All I sought was to fly from the stroke that was lifted.

Then I heaped upon my guards the most vehement reproaches, or betook myself to wailings on the haplessness of my condition.
This malady, at length, declined, and my weeping friends began to look for my restoration.

Slowly, and with intermitted beams, memory revisited me.