On a heap of straw in the corner lay a huddled figure, a kind of human rag.

Anderson paused a moment, then entered, hung the lamp he had brought with him on a peg, and closed the door behind him.
He stood looking down at the sleeper, who was in the restless stage before waking.

McEwen threw himself from side to side, muttered, and stretched.
Slowly a deep colour flooded Anderson's cheeks and brow; his hands hanging beside him clenched; he checked a groan that was also a shudder.
The abjectness of the figure, the terrible identification proceeding in his mind, the memories it evoked, were rending and blinding him.

The winter morning on the snow-strewn prairie, the smell of smoke blown towards him on the wind, the flames of the burning house, the horror of the search among the ruins, his father's confession, and his own rage and despair--deep in the tissues of life these images were stamped.

The anguish of them ran once more through his being.
How had he been deceived?
And what was to be done?
He sat down on a heap of rubbish beside the straw, looking at his father.