During these days, in a rambling, inconclusive way, I thought much
of the curate and of the manner of his death.

On the thirteenth day I drank some more water, and dozed and
thought disjointedly of eating and of vague impossible plans of
escape.  Whenever I dozed I dreamt of horrible phantasms, of the death
of the curate, or of sumptuous dinners; but, asleep or awake, I felt a
keen pain that urged me to drink again and again.  The light that came
into the scullery was no longer grey, but red.  To my disordered
imagination it seemed the colour of blood.