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.
Again the little desperate face rose before him.
If they did not succeed in killing her soon by their brutalities, she would commit suicide to escape from the horrors that surrounded her.