“In the darkness of that dungeon,” answered the old man, “I felt my soul going from me, I struggled hard to keep it—but it went, it went; the cruel wants of the body conquered it. Hunger, cold, the eternal drip of stagnant waters drove me mad, I think, for days lengthened into black years, and years grew into eternity. To me there was neither heaven or earth, nothing but that dungeon and its four dripping walls. As the memory of my sweet home among the vineyards died out, I began to love those walls; my eyes transformed themselves for the darkness, and learned to watch the creeping things that came and went into my dungeon; the bright-eyed toads, that sat hour by hour looking into my face, as if they wondered what manner of animal I was, sitting there so inert and helpless; or, hopping from place to place. They never felt the closeness of those four walls. After a time these creatures, so loathsome at first, became dear as children to me. I watched their coming with eager longing, and out of my scant food saved a little for them, that they might not be tempted to leave me. I would sit hours together holding one of these creatures in my hand, counting the spots on its back with my fingers, and smoothing its soft throat with gentle touches, while his bright eyes shone on me through the darkness. “Sometimes these pretty reptiles would creep into my bosom as I slept at night. Then I dreamed that the little hand of my child was caressing me. You understand, monsieur, as my sight had shaped itself to the darkness, so my heart, closed in by despair, found something to love even in that loathsome cell.” “Go on! go on!” said the stranger, sharply, “I am listening!” “Sometimes a keeper was harsh and cruel when he came to my cell, but oftener he was grim and silent, refusing to speak or answer one word of the questions which at first almost choked me as they crowded up from my heart. By degrees I did not care—what was the outer world to me, sitting there in the darkness of my tomb. Sometimes this man brought a lamp, and let me cut off the long hair which flowed over my shoulders like a woman’s. At first it was soft and golden, then it grew whiter—whiter—whiter; and by this I marked the time. When I came out the other day, it was drifted snow like this.