Again and again he asked himself
who was this boy who had recognised him in this Scotch desert.
The dusk gathered till he could not see a hundred yards from the tower.
Then he came down, struck a match, and examined the bottom room; it was
being borne in upon him that he was destined to spend the night in it.
It was some twelve feet square, and the stone floor was clean. In one
corner was a pile of heather; but there was no way of stopping up the
window, and the night was setting in chill.
He went back to the top of the tower; it was dark now. He shouted
again. The conviction of the hopelessness of his plight was taking a
strong hold upon him, and he was growing hungry. He stamped wearily
round the top of the tower to warm his chilling body, pondering a
hundred futile plans of escape, breaking off to consign to perdition
the deceptive angel child, and meditating many different revenges. At
the end of an hour he went down the ladder, and flung himself on the
pile of heather in a paroxysm of despair.
Till nearly ten o'clock he went now and again to the top of the tower,
and shouted. He was beginning to grow very hungry. At ten o'clock he
buried himself in the heather, and slept for an hour.
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