Shut up like a rat in a trap, with fire overhead and strong walls on each side, Dick Waters thought his temples would burst.
He pounded the walls of the prison, but the sound was drowned by the shouts above and the efforts put forth by the fire-fighters to save the house.
He listened against the stones, and tried to mark the progress of the grim destroyer, but in vain.
The wall which had receded to let him into the lower dungeon had gone back to its place, and he was cooped up with death before him and without hope.
He wondered if Old Broadbrim had come back.
If he had, had he thought of him, and would he look for the man who had become his ally?
At last a drop of water touched Waters' forehead.
He knew that it had soaked through the ceiling from the buckets of the ranchmen, and for a moment he took hope.
Perhaps, after all, he would be saved.
Now, with renewed desperation. Waters went to work on the wall already sounded fifty times.