But what was that beating in his ears--sharp, swift, even, rhythmic?
Never had his ears played him false.

Never had he heard things in his dreams.

That running object was a horse and he was coming like the wind.

Slone felt something grip his heart.

All the time and endurance and pain and thirst and suspense and longing and hopelessness--the agony of the whole endless chase--closed tight on his heart in that instant.
The running horse halted just in the belt of light cast by the burning grass.