On this he balanced himself and waited--simply for what Robert would do; for his faith in Robert was unbounded, and he had no other hope on earth.
But Shargar was not miserable.

In that wretched hovel, his bare feet clasping the clay floor in constant search of a wavering equilibrium, with pitch darkness around him, and incapable of the simplest philosophical or religious reflection, he yet found life good.

For it had interest.

Nay, more, it had hope.

I doubt, however, whether there is any interest at all without hope.
While he sat there, Robert, thinking him snug in the garret, was walking quietly home from the shoemaker's; and his first impulse on entering was to run up and recount the particulars of his interview with Alexander.
Arrived in the dark garret, he called Shargar, as usual, in a whisper--received no reply--thought he was asleep--called louder (for he had had a penny from his grandmother that day for bringing home two pails of water for Betty, and had just spent it upon a loaf for him)--but no Shargar replied.