There was a wild,
fitful terror in the eyes. Bonaparte made haste to go out and shut the
door, and leave him alone in the darkness. He himself was afraid of that
look.
...
It was almost morning. Waldo lay with his face upon the ground at the foot
of the fuel-heap. There was a round hole near the top of the door, where a
knot of wood had fallen out, and a stream of grey light came in through it.
Ah, it was going to end at last. Nothing lasts forever, not even the
night. How was it he had never thought of that before? For in all that
long dark night he had been very strong, had never been tired, never felt
pain, had run on and on, up and down, up and down; he had not dared to
stand still, and he had not known it would end. He had been so strong,
that when he struck his head with all his force upon the stone wall it did
not stun him nor pain him--only made him laugh. That was a dreadful night.
When he clasped his hands frantically and prayed--"O God, my beautiful God,
my sweet God, once, only once, let me feel you near me tonight!" he could
not feel him. He prayed aloud, very loud, and he got no answer; when he
listened it was all quite quiet--like when the priests of Baal cried aloud
to their god--"Oh, Baal, hear us! Oh, Baal, hear us! But Baal was gone a-
hunting.
That was a long wild night, and wild thoughts came and went in it; but they
left their marks behind them forever: for, as years cannot pass without
leaving their traces behind them, neither can nights into which are forced
the thoughts and sufferings of years.
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