"So," he thought to himself as, after having knelt by his wretched bed and prayed for mercy from his God, he flung himself upon it, "so 'tis to this pass I am brought--I, who have served the French King faithfully for years, who have committed no crime against him. And am I doomed to remain here forgotten? Perhaps be like that other one with whom I communicated to-day, or that still more unhappy man whose life has been spent in these awful walls. Forty-two years, he said of him--forty-two years!" And again he applied that second case to himself as he had done the first. "Forty-two years! I shall be then sixty-six. All, all will be dead and gone. My mother long since, Kate almost of a certainty; Douglas, too; even the scoundrel Fordingbridge! O God!" he cried, wrought up by these reflections, "release me from this place, I beseech Thee, release me; even though it be only by death. Let me not linger on here untried for a fault I know not of, uncondemned and forgotten. Take my life, but not my freedom while I live. What have I done? What have I done?" And with such a heartbroken prayer as this on his lips Bertie Elphinston fell asleep at last, if that can be termed sleep which was no more than a disturbed forgetfulness--a broken slumber from which he would wake with a start as some sound from other parts of the prison penetrated his chamber, or a rat would scamper across his bed and touch his hand with its foul, dank coat. CHAPTER XXIII. AT LAST. The days went on slowly and without anything to distinguish them from one another, until, at last, it seemed to Bertie in his dungeon that he would soon lose count of them, would forget how many had passed since first he entered the prison, and would become confused as to the days of the week. Every night he heard the roaring of the English "captain"--if such he was--and every day he communicated with the prisoner in the tower opposite to him, but these alone were the incidents of his life, for beyond the visits of Bluet with his meals, no one came near him. And he thought ever of what those outside would imagine had become of him. With that opposite prisoner, for whose appearance at his window he looked eagerly every morning, he had now established an almost perfect system of corresponding, so that, although their intercourse was naturally very slow, it was at least something with which to beguile many weary hours. He had been unable to discover any board which would answer to the one on which his strangely made friend wrote and rubbed out letter after letter and formed his words, but as he had found several large pieces of paper in a corner of the chapel, he had managed to shape a number of large letters--indeed, all of the alphabet--which, by holding each up successively, answered the purpose equally well. And thus they corresponded slowly and wearily, but still intelligibly, and in that way the monotony of their lives was relieved. Yet even this was not