As if sensing her presence the figure lifted its head, bewildered, and stood up. A fearful, long-drawn wail split the night, whether from the spirit or from herself she could not have said, only that the face was that of her beloved, that he was in great pain, and had been struck blind. He turned wildly from side to side, trying to penetrate the blackness of his eyes. And the same words that she had sent to him now became his own, endlessly, hopelessly repeated. "Where are you? Where are you? Where are you!" She tried to answer but could not, as if between them they possessed but a single voice. And as he finally stopped thrashing, and she felt her tongue loosed, she became aware of the thing which had stilled him, so utterly that she knew he had lost all hope, confronted by the sinister, solitary figure which parted the mist and stood before him: her hated half-brother, who had stolen and crushed his heart. All was deathly still as they faced one another in silence. Purceville drew a long pistol, and held it at arm's length. Michael was a statue, head down, hands at his sides in resignation. There was the crack of a shot, and again a frozen wail split the night, this time undeniably her own. Mary sat bolt upright in the bed. She was trembling, and her inner garments clung to her in a cold sweat. Fully awake now, and with the sudden insight brought by waking, she knew beyond a shadow of doubt what she must do. Still fully clothed, she stepped down from the bed and lifted up the mattress. The manuscript book was there, had been there all the while she slept. The feel of its widow-black cover was cold and forbidding, but there was no longer time for fear or hesitation. She lit a thick tallow candle, and moved with it to the hard, bare table and chair. Her mother was still nowhere to be seen. She bolted the door from within, then opened the book before her. Eleven The two men sat before the roaring fire, smoking contentedly. The prisoner put a hand to his stomach, feeling nourished and filled as he had not been for many months. The room was warm; he was safe for the night, at least. And yet something was troubling him. Nothing to do with the man, or the place. It did not even seem to concern himself. But in some remote corner of his mind there was disquiet, as if someone he cared about was in trouble or in danger. He took another deep puff on the pipe that had been given him, unable to work the thought through. They had remained thus for some time when at last the old man spoke. From his patient movements and steady gaze throughout, and still more from his present silence, the younger man sensed a profound caution and wisdom. So now that he chose to speak, the prisoner deemed it best to leave his disquiet for a time, to listen or to speak as was asked of him, and to learn from the seasoned veteran what was needful.