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Then she wondered if she was not going mad,
and sat down to rest and think. But after a time she
was again on the march, counting the ells and fathoms
into miles, taking a short rest at the huts along
the way, and sleeping neither day nor night till she
had gone over the hundred and forty miles again.
During the time of her imprisonment she had
hardly ever slept, and the two women who had
come to see her gazed at her anxiously. The young
Countess ever afterwards remembered her as she
looked then. She often dreamed of her, and woke
with tears in her eyes and a cry on her lips.
The old lady was so broken down; her hair was
so thin, and loose ends streamed from the thin plait.
Her face looked weak and hollow, her clothes were
disordered and ragged, but she had still enough of
the old imperiousness of the powerful Lady Bountiful
about her so that she did not only inspire pity,
but also respect.
But the young Countess chiefly remembered her
eyes—sunken, retrospective, the light of reason in
them not yet destroyed, but ready to die out—with
a fierce gleam in their depths, so that you feared
she might attack you with biting teeth and with
clawing hands.
They had stood watching her for some time, when
the Major’s wife paused before the young Countess
and looked at her severely. The Countess took
a step backward, and clutched Fru Schärling’s arm.
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