d the chairs--or all but one--should eke out his fuel, and
he would sleep. But not yet.

For he had no desire to die; and with warmth he knew that he could put
up for a long time with the lack of food. Every hour during which he
had the strength and courage to bear up against privation increased his
chances; it was impossible to say what might not happen with time.
Uncle Ulick was due to return in a week--and Bale. Or his gaolers might
relent. Nay, they must relent for their own sakes, if he bore a stout
heart and held out; for until the deed was signed they dared not let
him perish.

That was a good thought. He wondered if it had occurred to them. If it
had, it was plain that they relied on his faint-heartedness, and his
inability to bear the pangs of hunger, even within limits. For they
could put him on the rack, but they dared not push the torment so far
as to endanger his life. With that knowledge, surely with that in his
mind, he could outstay their patience. He must tighten his belt, he
must eke out his fuel, he must bear equably the pangs of appetite;
after all, in comparison with the perils and privations through which
he had passed on the cruel plains of Eastern Europe, and among a
barbarous people, this was a small thing.

Or it would have been a small thing if that profound depression, that
sadness at the heart which had held him motionless so long had not
still sapped his will, undermined his courage, and bowed his head upon
his breast. A small thing! a few hours, a few days even of hunger and
cold and physical privation--no more! But when it was overpast, and he
had suffered and was free, to what could he look forward? What prospect
stretched beyond, save one grey, dull, and sunless, a homeless middle
age, an old age without solace? He was wounded in the house of his
friend, and felt not the pain only, but the sorrow. In a little while
he would remember that, if he had not to take, he had still to give: if
he had not to enjoy, he had still to do. The wounds would heal. Already
shadowy plans rose before him.

Yet for the time--for he was human--he drew small comfort from such
plans. He would walk up and down for a few minutes, then he would sink
into his chair with a stern face, and he would brood. Again, when the
cold struck to his bones, he would sigh, and rise of necessity and pace
again from wall to wall.

His had been a mad fancy, a foolish fancy, a fancy of which--for how
many years rolled betwee