The curious semi-stoical strain which underlay Louis de Chantemerle’s levity had served him well in the last twelve hours, but it had not the potency of a soporific. Having nothing else to do, he had perforce spent a considerable amount of time already in reflection on his position, and had not intended to resume the subject for the present. He had looked his danger in the face. His chances were not good, and he knew it. He was there to be made an example of; the example would probably be made. In that case nothing remained to do but to meet his fate with courage. But as he lay wide-eyed in the gloom, and watched the tiny square of night sky through the barred window there seized him—strangely enough, for the first time—not the realisation of impending death, but the horrible sense that he was caged. It began to be impossible to lie still any longer. He sprang up with an exclamation, combating an insensate impulse to batter at the barred door, to beat with bare hands against the walls. Instead, biting his lips, and for the sake of doing something, he dragged the little table from the middle of the room to the window, and climbed up on it. But the bars were still above his head, and he got down again to stand a moment motionless, his back against the wall, the sweat on his forehead, fighting with all the powers of his nature against the nameless fear that closes round any trapped creature with youth and health in its veins. Then he went back to his pallet, lay down and covered himself up very deliberately with his coat. Sleep did not come for many hours, but the unsuspected strength of will on which he could call at pleasure enabled him at least to seek it. In the end he slept soundly enough. He did not wake, indeed, till the bolts of his cell door, noisily withdrawn about six o'clock, brought him back from the region of dreams to reality. He stirred, and the rustle of the straw told him instantly where he was. “Breakfast, _ci-devant_,” said a gruff voice succinctly, and something was set down on the floor. “Stop a minute, my friend,” commanded Louis sleepily. “I want some water—for washing—and a razor too.” The jailor exploded. “Name of a name! What next? Water—I don’t say, if you choose to pay for it—but a razor!” The Vicomte was by this time sitting up, and studying the hairy visage in the doorway. “True,” he observed reflectively. “Razors don't seem to be much in fashion here.” “No, nor won’t ever be, my young sprig,” retorted the man. “However, don’t trouble yourself. You won’t be here long enough to grow a beard.” “I sincerely trust not,” replied the captive, without pausing to enquire the exact meaning of this ambiguous prediction. “Well, bring me some water then—a livre's worth.” When the man returned Saint-Ermay was standing in the middle of the little room picking bits of straw off his ruffles. His guardian set down a broken jug and a small basin on the table under the window. “Been trying to look out?” he asked, grinning.