Hugh's pale cheek burned.
"I am bound," he said slowly to himself over and over again.

There was no way of escape.
Yesterday evening, with some intuition of coming peril, he had said, "I will get out." The way of retreat had been open behind him.

Now, by one slight movement, he was cut off from it forever.
"I can't get out," said the starling, the feathers on its breast worn away with beating against the bars.
"I can't get out," said Hugh, coming for the first time in contact with the bars which he was to know so well--the bars of the prison that he had made with his own hands.
He looked into the future with blank eyes.

He had no future now.

He stared vacantly in front of him like a man who looks through his window at the wide expanse of meadow and waving wood and distant hill which has met his eye every morning of his life and finds it--gone.