And then he laughed again, softly, a bit grimly, for he saw the melancholy humour of the fact that he had built his own prison.
He sat down again on the edge of his cot, and the whimsical thought struck him that all those he had brought to this same cell, and who had paid the first of their penance here, must be laughing at him now in the spirit way.

In his mental fancy a little army of faces trooped before him, faces dark and white, faces filled with hatred and despair, faces brave with the cheer of hope and faces pallid with the dread of death.

And of these ghosts of his man-hunting prowess it was Anton Fournet's face that came out of the crowd and remained with him.

For he had brought Anton to this same cell--Anton, the big Frenchman, with his black hair, his black beard, and his great, rolling laugh that even in the days when he was waiting for death had rattled the paper-weights on Kedsty's desk.
Anton rose up like a god before Kent now.

He had killed a man, and like a brave man he had not denied it.