Each time he came out where the sky was clear he looked toward the solitary dark pinnacle, far up and ahead, strangely resembling a giant tombstone in the star-glow, that was their guide.

And after many minutes of strange climbing, in which it seemed to Jolly Roger the nail-heads in the soles of his boots made weirdly loud noises on the rocks, they came near to the top.
There they stopped, and in a deeply shadowed place where there was a carpet of soft sand, with walls of rock close on either side, Jolly Roger spread out his blankets.

Then he went out from the black shadow, so that a million stars seemed not far away over their heads.

Here he sat down, and began to smoke, thinking of what tomorrow would hold for him, and of the many days destined to follow that tomorrow.

Nowhere in the world was there to be--for him--the peace of an absolute certainty.
Not until he felt the cold steel of iron bars with his two hands, and the fatal game had been played to the end.
There was no corrosive bitterness of the vengeful in Jolly Roger's heart.