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LONE—chained to the invalid chair wherein, day in, day out, for years on end, he had suffered the Promethean torments of the life that would not die out of his wretched carcass— Seneca Trine sat waiting, with the impassivity of a graven figure.

"Another hour! … In sixty minutes more they will be here, Judith and Marrophat and Rosepoor fool—and him! They will put him down before me, bound and helpless, if not dead …"

A slight pause prefaced words that were a whimpered prayer: "God grant that Alan Law may be laid down still living here at my feet! Then …" A bitter smile twisted his tortured features. "When I have seen him die as his father died—then—ah, God!—then at last I, too, may die!"

There was a long silence, then a groan of exasperated protest: "Why do they not come? Why does Judith delay? She must have found so many opportunities to leap and strike, why has she always failed? Where is that message she sent me yesterday?" 121