'There's one thing about me you seem to forget, Poyning,' I said, '--if you ever knew it. I loved a woman myself once. That was my wife. When she died, ten years ago, I prayed for death too. I've often prayed for it since, and if there hadn't been my work still to live for, I think I should have helped myself to an answer to the prayer before now. But there was my work--the digging out of obscure facts about the East--and that's what led me here. Just at present the chances seem to be against my getting back to the outer world and publishing an account of this valley, but if ever I'm able to do that, never fear but I shall let it be known the late Major Poyning met his death trying to return to his regiment like a good soldier. If I meet my own death here, it may bring me nearer to the only woman I ever loved. So there appear to be compensations either way.' He took my hand in silence, and wrung it warmly. 'Come,' I said at length, 'if there are only a few days left to us we shan't materially extend them by staying awake all night.' With that I turned in and slept--not well, it is true, but soundly enough to hear nothing of what happened during the night. That something had happened was very plain. Poyning had vanished. His bedchamber was empty and bare, and not a word could I extract from the one solemn attendant left to me--the rest were gone--as to what had become of him. Moreover, looking out through the tracery-windows of the house, I observed several stalwart figures disposed about it. At first I couldn't understand what these men were doing, but it soon broke upon me. They were my guards. I was a prisoner, in solitary confinement.