When one of the guards went to give Thomas his breakfast, he found him sitting with a grave air on a low stool near the door of his prison, with a large bloody pocket-knife in his hand. There was a pool of gore on the floor at his feet, and his neck and breast were terribly gashed. “Why, Thomas!” exclaimed the horrified sentinel, “What have you done?” “Some fellow,” returned Thomas, in a calm, and even dignified tone, “murdered my father last night in the room above, and——” pointing to the blood on the floor—“his blood ran down here. Some of it fell on me, but how could I help that?” “But what are you doing with that knife? You have surely cut yourself.” “O,” he retorted coolly, as he pointed to his lacerated breast, “I have been merely trying to get my heart out. I had hold of it once, but it slipped out of my hand.” There was a wild look in his eye, and he presented a rather dangerous appearance with the gory knife in his hand, and his clothes stained with blood. The sentinel paused a moment, then duty triumphing over fear, he advanced boldly, and said, in an authoritative tone: “Give me that knife!” Without a word, Thomas submissively handed him the bloody instrument, with which he had been attempting self-destruction. It was a large knife with eating-fork attached, such as was much used by soldiers during the war—the blade being about four inches long. Having secured this weapon, the sentinel closed and locked the door, then hastened to inform the Doctor of what had occurred. Thereupon Thomas was conducted to an upper room, his wounds—twenty-two in number—were examined and dressed, and he was put to bed. There were two Doctors at the hospital at the time, and both expressed a like opinion on the case of poor Thomas. They said they wouldn’t be surprised if he should die, but yet, that it was possible he might get well—if “kept quiet:” so, by this non-committal course, they did not endanger their reputation. CHAPTER III. PROPOSES TO LEAP FROM A THIRD-STORY WINDOW. FOR some days, the recovery of Mr. Thomas was very doubtful. Some one had to stay with him continually, and especially at night, for at that dreary hour, “when churchyards yawn,” and one experiences an inclination to sup on “hot blood,” (_vide_ Hamlet,) he was in the habit of raving a good deal and of threatening to destroy himself, and the greater portion of the human race. By and by, “sitting up” with him got to be a rather sleepy task, and as there were not very many whole men about, it was necessary for the cripples to take turns at it.