He did not feel the wind of his running on his bare skin.
He did not feel the hunger that had made him so unable to bear the lash.

On and on he ran, fancying ever he heard the cruel Angus behind him.

If a dry twig snapped, he thought it was the crack of the whip; and a small wind that rose suddenly in the top of a pine, seemed the hiss with which it was about to descend upon him.

He ran and ran, but still there seemed nothing between him and his persecutors.

He felt no safety.