Then there was a morning when he awoke as if on a bed of sharp knives, and lay alone all day and all that night, and all the next day and that night, not being able to stir without making the knives cut into his vitals.
Barney lay there all that time, and his soul became fairly bound into passiveness with awful fetters of fiery bone and muscle; sometimes he groaned, but nobody heard him.

The last night he felt as if his whole physical nature was knitting about him and stifling him with awful coils of pain.

The tears rolled over his cheeks.

He prayed with hoarse gasps, and he could not tell if anybody heard him.

A dim light from a window in the Barnard house on the hill lay into the kitchen opposite his bedroom door.