He was perfectly contented to sit
there, staring at it, and felt no more indignation or discomfort in his
bonds than if they had been robes of honour. So far as he was personally
concerned, old Time lay snoring, and the world stood still.
Save for the dripping from the barrels, the rustling of such light
fragments of destruction as the wind affected, and the dull creaking of
the open doors, all was profoundly quiet: indeed, these sounds, like
the ticking of the death-watch in the night, only made the silence they
invaded deeper and more apparent. But quiet or noisy, it was all one
to John. If a train of heavy artillery could have come up and commenced
ball practice outside the window, it would have been all the same to
him. He was a long way beyond surprise. A ghost couldn't have overtaken
him.
By and by he heard a footstep--a hurried, and yet cautious
footstep--coming on towards the house. It stopped, advanced again,
then seemed to go quite round it. Having done that, it came beneath the
window, and a head looked in.
It was strongly relieved against the darkness outside by the glare of
the guttering candles. A pale, worn, withered face; the eyes--but that
was owing to its gaunt condition--unnaturally large and bright; the
hair, a grizzled black.
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