It was almost morning. Waldo lay with his face upon the ground at the foot of the fuel-heap. There was a round hole near the top of the door, where a knot of wood had fallen out, and a stream of gray light came in through it.

Ah, it was going to end at last! Nothing lasts forever not even the night. How was it he had never thought of that before? For in all that long dark night he had been very strong, had never been tired, never felt pain, had run on and on, up and down, up and down; he had not dared to stand still, and he had not known it would end. He had been so strong, that when he struck his head with all his force upon the stone wall it did not stun him nor pain him — only made him laugh. That was a dreadful night. When he clasped his hands frantically and prayed — “O God, my beautiful God, my sweet God, once, only once, let me feel you near me to-night!” he could not feel Him. He prayed aloud, very loud, and he got no answer; when he listened it was all quite quiet — like when the priests of Baal cried aloud to their god — “Oh, Baal, hear us! Oh, Baal, hear us!” but Baal was gone a-hunting.

That was a long wild night, and wild thoughts came and went in it; but they left their marks behind them forever: for, as years cannot pass without leaving their traces behind them, neither can nights into which are forced the thoughts and sufferings of years. And now the dawn was coming, and at last he was very tired. He shivered, and tried to draw the shirt up over his shoulders. They were getting stiff. He had never known they were cut in the night. He looked up at the white light that came in through the hole at the top of the door and shuddered. Then he turned his face back to the ground and slept again.

Some hours later Bonaparte came toward the fuel-house with a lump of bread in his hand. He opened the door and peered in; then entered, and touched the fellow with his boot. Seeing that he breathed heavily, though he did not rouse, Bonaparte threw the bread down on the ground. He was alive, that was one thing. He bent over him, and carefully scratched open one of the cuts with the nail of his forefinger, examining with much interest his last night’s work. He would have to count his sheep himself that day; the boy was literally cut up. He locked the door and went away again.

“Oh, Lyndall,” said Em, entering the dining-room, and bathed in tears, that afternoon, “I have been begging Bonaparte to let him out, and he won’t.”

“The more you beg the more he will not,” said Lyndall.