He could hear the murmur of it.
He could see its movement, and that movement, played upon by the stars, seemed now a writhing sort of almost noiseless laughter taunting him in his folly.
He went back to his cot, and in his despair buried his face in his hands.

In the half-hour after that he did not raise his head.

For the first time in his life he knew that he was beaten, so utterly beaten that he no more had the desire to fight, and his soul was dark with the chaos of the things he had lost.
At last he opened his eyes to the blackness of his prison room, and he beheld a marvelous thing.

Across the gloom of the cell lay a shaft of golden fire.

It was the light of the rising moon coming through his little, steel-barred window.