Conan lay still, enduring the weight of his chains and the despair of his position with the stoicism of the wilds that had bred him.  He did not move, because the jangle of his chains, when he shifted his body, sounded startlingly loud in the darkness and stillness, and it was his instinct, born of a thousand wilderness-bred ancestors, not to betray his position in his helplessness.  This did not result from a logical reasoning process, he did not lie quiet because he reasoned that the darkness hid lurking dangers that might discover him in his helplessness.  This did not result from a logical reasoning process; he did not lie quiet because he reasoned that the darkness hid lurking dangers that might discover him in his helplessness.  Xaltotun had assured him that he was not to be harmed, and Conan believed that it was in the man's interest to preserve him, at least for the time being.  But the instincts of the wild were there, that had caused him in his childhood to lie hidden and silent while wild beasts prowled about his covert.

Even his keen eyes could not pierce the solid darkness.  Yet after a while, after a period of time he had no way of estimating, a faint glow became apparent, a sort of slanting gray beam, by which Conan could see, vaguely, the bars of the door at his elbow, and even make out the skeleton of the other grille.  This puzzled him, until at last he realized the explanation.  He was far below ground in the pits below the palace; yet for some reason a shaft had been constructed from somewhere above.  Outside the moon had risen to a point where its light slanted dimly down the shaft.  He reflected that in this manner he could tell the passing of the days and nights.  Perhaps the sun was a subtle method of torture, allowing a prisoner but a glimpse of daylight or moonlight.

His gaze fell on the broken bones in the farther corner, glimmering dimly.  He did not tax his brain with futile speculation as to who the wretch had been and for what reason he had been doomed, but he wondered at the shattered condition of the bones.  They had not been broken on a rack.  Then, as he looked, another unsavory detail made itself evident.  The shin-bones were split lengthwise, and there was but one explanation; they had been broken in that manner in order to obtain the marrow.  Yet what creature but man breaks bones for their marrow?  Perhaps those remnants were mute evidence of a horrible, cannibalistic feast, of some wretch driven to madness, by starvation.  Conan wondered if his own bones would be found at some future date, hanging in their rusty chains.  He fought down the unreasoning panic of a trapped wolf.

The Cimmerian did not curse, scream, weep, or rave as a civilized man might have done.  But the pain and turmoil in his bosom were none the less fierce.  His great limbs quivered with the intensity of his emotions.  Somewhere, far to the westward, the Nemedian host was slashing and burning its way through the heart of his kingdom.  The small host of the Poitanians could not stand before them.  Prospero might be able to hold Tarantia for weeks, or months; but eventually, if not relieved, he must surrender to greater numbers.  Surely the barons would rally to him against the invaders.  But in the meanwhile he, Conan, must lie helpless in a darkened cell, while others led his spears and fought for his kingdom.  The king ground his powerful teeth in red rage.