Grenville made no attempt to sleep as the long night went laggardly by. He dozed, from sheer weariness, now and again, with his back against the rocks, but two or three times in every hour he rose from his place to go out on the ledge, where he listened to catch the slightest sound that might be made above the ceaseless lapping of the water. He would then return to the gallery, assure himself the smoldering brands were ready for use at any moment, and once more sit down to wait and nod. Elaine was equally sleepless. Far more than Grenville she feared night treacheries on the part of the Dyaks from the jungle. The state of her nerves, since the terrace was so readily accessible to the head-hunting butchers, permitted no thought of sleep. Moreover, never since their arrival on the island had Grenville so far exiled himself from her side throughout a night. She had always felt protected heretofore, and upon that protection had relied. As restlessly as the man below she came to the door, times without number, to listen for sounds the jungle might surrender, as well as to watch through the darkness for the slightest inimical sign. Not a sound, however, did the night vouchsafe her straining senses; not the slightest movement in all the world of shadows, life, and tragedy about and below her position could her blazing eyes detect. She had never known a night so long, or one so haunted with fears. Her imagination played cruelly upon her heart, picturing one dread scene of butchery after another, with Sidney completely overwhelmed and finally slain, while she, no longer desirous of life, awaited her fate in a dumb and dulled indifference. She was certain the morning would never dawn again, or, if it did, the one man pitted against these savages might not even have time for one faint tug on the cord about her arm, more like a farewell than a signal. It was a red and troubled break of day that finally reddened the eastern sky, where clouds were banked above the sea. Grenville had dozed for perhaps as much as twenty minutes. He awoke with a start from lurid dreams in which he had fancied himself awake after criminally oversleeping, only to find himself and Elaine pinned down by a horde of the merciless brutes to whom human heads are trophies. The red of the sky for a moment confirmed some remaining disorder of his thoughts. He had stumbled quickly to the cavern's mouth, from which the sanguinary streaks and blotches, now painting the far horizon and dully reflected in the sea, were confusedly presented. The coolness of the haunting breeze, that crept like a presence about the silent island, restored him soon and cleared the mists from his brain. He stood for several minutes, gazing listlessly forth, disgusted with the outcome of the night. Once more he returned to the gallery to inspect his brands of fire. And once again, on returning to the chamber, his inclination was to prop his back against the wall and let himself sink in slumber.