He did not fear death. In more than
one game he had played against its hand, more often for love of the
sport than not, but there was a horror in being penned up and tortured
by it. He had come to look upon it as a fair enemy, filled of course
with subterfuge and treachery, which were the laws of the game; but he
had never dreamed of it as anything but merciful in its quickness. It
was as if his adversary had broken an inviolable pact with him and he
sweated and tossed on his bed of straw while Neil sat cool and silent on
the bench against the dungeon wall. Sheer exhaustion brought him relief,
and after a time he fell asleep.
He was awakened by Neil. The white face of Marion's brother was over him
when he opened his eyes and he was shaking him roughly by the shoulder.
"Wake up, Nat!" he cried. "For Heaven's sake--wake up!"
He drew back as Nathaniel sleepily roused himself.
"I couldn't help it, Nat," he apologized, laughing nervously. "You've
lain there like a dead man for hours. My head is splitting with this
damned silence. Come--smoke up! I got some tobacco from our jailer and
he loaned me his pipe."
Nathaniel jumped to his feet. A fresh candle was burning on the table
and in its light he saw that a startling change had come into Neil's
face during the hours he had slept. It looked to him thinner and whiter,
its lines had deepened, and the young man's eyes were filled with gloomy
dejection.
"Why didn't you awaken me sooner?" he exclaimed.
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