In more than one game he had played against its hand, more often for love of the sport than not, but there was a horror in being penned up and tortured by it.

He had come to look upon it as a fair enemy, filled of course with subterfuge and treachery, which were the laws of the game; but he had never dreamed of it as anything but merciful in its quickness.

It was as if his adversary had broken an inviolable pact with him and he sweated and tossed on his bed of straw while Neil sat cool and silent on the bench against the dungeon wall.

Sheer exhaustion brought him relief, and after a time he fell asleep.
He was awakened by Neil.

The white face of Marion's brother was over him when he opened his eyes and he was shaking him roughly by the shoulder.
"Wake up, Nat!" he cried.