He sat shivering and coughing till the dawn, while the other men talked
in low voices or played cards. One or two slept fitfully in
uncomfortable attitudes on the floor.
No one grumbled at the discomfort or weariness of the vigil.
They who looked forward to ultimate prison and perhaps death itself
were not wont to quarrel with such minor inconveniences as the loss of
sleep.
Sobrenski had pulled the solitary candle in the room towards him and
sat writing rapidly and frowning to himself.
His fox-like face framed in its red hair and beard looked more
relentless and crafty than ever in the revealing light, and the boy
shivered anew, but not from physical cold.
He did not fear the leader of the Brotherhood for himself, but for
Arithelli--Arithelli, the drudge, the tool, the "errand boy," as she
had called herself.
Perhaps in time even she would become a heartless machine.
Human life had seemed so cheap and of so little account to him once,
but since he had loved her--
She could never live among such people and in such scenes, and still
remain unscarred.
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