Again and again he asked himself who was this boy who had recognised him in this Scotch desert.
The dusk gathered till he could not see a hundred yards from the tower.
Then he came down, struck a match, and examined the bottom room; it was being borne in upon him that he was destined to spend the night in it.
It was some twelve feet square, and the stone floor was clean.

In one corner was a pile of heather; but there was no way of stopping up the window, and the night was setting in chill.
He went back to the top of the tower; it was dark now.

He shouted again.

The conviction of the hopelessness of his plight was taking a strong hold upon him, and he was growing hungry.

He stamped wearily round the top of the tower to warm his chilling body, pondering a hundred futile plans of escape, breaking off to consign to perdition the deceptive angel child, and meditating many different revenges.