here was a wild,
fitful terror in the eyes. Bonaparte made haste to go out and shut the
door, and leave him alone in the darkness. He himself was afraid of that
look.

*****

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 grey 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 tonight!"
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
loc