For then rolled over that young head hours of mortal anguish that no tongue of man can utter, nor pen can shadow. Chained sane amongst the mad; on his wedding-day; expecting with tied hands the sinister acts of the soul-murderers who had the power to make their lie a truth! We can paint the body writhing vainly against its unjust bonds; but who can paint the loathing, agonised soul in a mental situation so ghastly? For my part I feel it in my heart of hearts; but am impotent to convey it to others; impotent, impotent. Pray think of it for yourselves, men and women, if you have not _sworn_ never to think over a novel. Think of it for your own sakes: Alfred's turn to-day, it may be yours to-morrow. CHAPTER XXXII AT two o'clock an attendant stole on tiptoe to the strong-room, unlocked the door, and peeped cautiously in. Seeing the dangerous maniac quiet, he entered with a plate of lukewarm beef and potatoes, and told him bluntly to eat. The crushed one said he could not eat. “You must,” said the man. “Eat!” said Alfred; “of what do you think I am made! Pray put it down and listen to me. I'll give you a hundred pounds to let me out of this place; two hundred; three.” A coarse laugh greeted this proposal. “You might as well have made it a thousand when you was about it.” “So I will,” said Alfred eagerly, “and thank you on my knees besides. Ah, I see you don't believe I have money. I give you my honour I have ten thousand pounds: it was settled on me by my grandfather, and I came of age last week.” “Oh, that's like enough,” said the man carelessly. “Well, you _are_ green. Do you think them as sent you here will let you spend your money? No, your money is theirs now.” And he sat down with the plate on his knee and began to cut the meat in small pieces; while his careless words entered Alfred's heart, and gave him such a glimpse of sinister motives and dark acts to come as set him shuddering. “Come none o' that,” said the man, suspecting this shudder. He thought it was the prologue to some desperate act; for all a chained madman does is read upon this plan: his terror passes for rage, his very sobs for snarls. “Oh, be honest with me,” said Alfred imploringly; “do you think it is to steal my money the wretch has stolen my liberty?” “What wretch?” “My father.” “I know nothing about it,” said the man sullenly, “in course there's mostly money behind, when young gents like you come to be took care of. But you musn't go thinking of that, or you'll excite yourself again. Come you eat your vittles like a Christian, and no more about it.” “Leave it, that is a good fellow; and then I'll try and eat a little by-and-bye. But my grief is great--oh Julia! Julia! what shall I do? And I am not used to eat at this time. Will you, my good fellow?” “Well, I will, now you behave like a gentleman,” said the man. Then Alfred coaxed him to take off the handcuffs. He refused, but ended by doing it; and so left him.