Twice he opened his mouth to call him back, but greed
prevailed.
The day wore wearily through. His spoilt stomach was now raving at him
in a savage frenzy. Now and again he shouted, but less often as the
afternoon drew on, for he knew surely that it was hopeless.
As the dusk fell, he found himself remembering Tinker's words about the
headless woman and the redheaded man, and began to curse his folly in
not having come to terms. At times his hunger was a veritable anguish.
This night was a thousand times worse than the night before. His
hunger gave him little rest, and he awoke from his brief sleep in fits
of abject terror, fancying that the redheaded man was staring in
through the window; he saw his gashed throat quite plainly. He grew
colder and colder, for he was too faint with hunger to stamp about the
top of the tower. Later he must have grown delirious, for he saw the
headless woman climbing up the ladder to the second story. It must
have been delirium, for the figure he saw wore an ordinary nightrail,
whereas the lady of the legend wore a russet gown. Some years later,
as it seemed to him, the dawn came. It grew warmer; and he huddled
into the pile of heather and slept.
He was awakened by a shout of "Lambert of London, awake!" and tottering
to the window, groaning, he beheld a cold grouse, a three-pound chunk
of venison, two loaves, and a small bottle of whiskey neatly set out on
a napkin.
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