The dull listlessness from which his encounter with Astbury aroused him for a moment, closed on him again as soon as he was once more alone; the glimpse of his old ideals that had revisited him had faded, and only left him with a dogged determination to do nothing unworthy of them, but with no pride or pleasure in his resolve.  And as he grew more weary, more desperate of escape from his pursuers, he soon ceased to think at all; political dreams, sorrow for the dead, hopes of finding new friends and ambitions in a new world, all were forgotten, the spirit within him was dulled by suffering; only the poor body cried incessantly for rest, for food, for warmth, and most often craved in vain.