He had long before drawn the marrow, in his monotonous tramp hither and thither, from every object of slightest interest that the small ruined chamber could boast. Here was the crazed girl’s museum, arranged on worm-eaten shelves--a medley of grotesque rubbish that superstition had thought fit to respect. It was a gruesome litter--skins, stones, and petrified vegetables; and he had cursed his own high precipitancy over the thought of how a little forbearance on his part might have saved to the collection its most notable item, and so rendered nugatory all the present evil that encompassed him. Once he had stooped to examine a certain object amongst the trash--a round pebble that seemed familiar to him. It was the scrawled stone that had been slung through a window for Dennis’s behoof, and he peered at it with an emotion commingled of curiosity and remorse. So Darda it was had secured the treasure--to her, no doubt, a veritable message from the shadows. And had the rascal that threw it recognized his handiwork amongst these other fetishes and chuckled to see it reserved for such high distinction? It was probable enough, for the room bore signs of late occupation by some very rough company. Gnawed crusts, onion-skins, tobacco-ashes lay scattered about the hearth. In one corner was a litter of twigs and broken branches, hastily collected, it would appear, for fire-wood, and cast down beside them was an old canvas-bag, striped pink and drab, that had been stuffed with dead leaves for fuel. In another a greasy gridiron and a dinted tin pannikin or so were evidence of a certain commissariat foresight on the part of the besiegers; while an empty rundlet, thrown aside like a discharged cartridge-case, was earnest of that species of baggage without which no knight of fortune can be brought to take the road. Each and all of these objects the prisoner dwelt upon, and passed by, and reviewed again and again, till his brain learnt to loathe their inevitability at the turning-points of his wearisome sentry-go. And still the icy hours closed upon themselves and no soul came near him. By and by, as an acute accent to his long trial of cold and anxiety, extreme hunger asserted itself the overpowering sensation. He had not touched food then for more than thirty hours, and his frame had been submitted during the whole of that time to severe and exhausting experiences. When at last, from thoughts otherwise preoccupying, he woke to an amazed realization of the fact that he was being starved into submission, he strode to the door and kicked at the panels in an excess of furious indignation. To the very thundering noise of his onset a low voice across the passage returned like an echo. “Rudland, if the prisoner shows himself outside, shoot him at once.” “You hound!” he shouted at that--“bring me food! d’ye hear? bring me food, or I’ll burn the house down!”