There had been no pretence at any friendly feeling on the part of his captors.

They had glared hatred at him from the outset, and Phil was firmly convinced, without any undue pessimism, that they had not the smallest intention of sparing his life.
But why they postponed the final deed was a problem, that he found himself quite unable to solve.

It had worried him perpetually for twenty hours, and, combined with the misery of his bonds, made sleep an impossibility.
Sleep! The very thought of it was horrible to him.

It had never struck him before as a criminal waste of the precious hours of life, for Phil was young, and he had not done with mortal existence.

There were in it deeps he had not sounded, heights he had never scaled.