remained. He was glad, as the weather was now oppressively
warm, and he greatly preferred to sleep on a blanket in the open air.

The night was somewhat advanced when he lay down. The other prisoners
were asleep already. He had not found any kindred minds among them,
and, as they were apathetic, he had not talked with them much. Now,
he did not miss them at all as he lay on his blanket and watched the
wavering lights of the camp. It was still quite dark, with a moaning
wind, but his experience of weather told him that the chance of
rain was gone. Far in the west, lightning flickered and low thunder
grumbled there now and then, but in the camp everything was dry. Owing
to the warmth, the fires used for cooking had been permitted to burn
out, and the whole army seemed at peace.

Robert himself shared this feeling of rest. The storm, passing so far
away, soothed and lulled him. It was pleasant to lie there, unharmed,
and witness its course at a far point. He dozed a while, fell asleep,
and awoke again in half an hour. Nothing had changed. There was still
an occasional flicker of lightning and mutter of thunder and the
darkness remained heavy. He could dimly see the forms of his comrades
lying on their blankets. Not one of them stirred. They slept heavily
and he rather envied them. They had little imagination, and, when one
was in bad case, he was lucky to be without it.

The figure lying nearest him he took to be that of the hunter, a
taciturn man who talked least of them all, and again Robert felt envy
because he could lose all care so thoroughly and so easily in sleep.
The man was as still and unconcerned as one of the mountain peaks that
looked down upon them. He would imitate him, and although sleep might
be unwilling, he would conquer it. A resolute mind could triumph over
anything.

He shut his eyes and his will was so strong that he held them shut
a full ten minutes, although sleep did not come. When he opened them
again he thought that the hunter had moved a little. After all, the
man was mortal, and had human emotions. He was not an absolute log.

"Tilden!" he called--Tilden was the hunter's name.

But Tilden did not stir, nor did he respond in any way when he called
a second time. He had been mistaken. He had given the man too much
credit. He was really a log, a dull, apathetic fellow to whom the
extraordinary conditions around them made no appeal. He would not
speak to him again as long as they were prison