"I have brought it on myself at last," thought the Woodman, as looking round him he found all the horrors he had dreamed of the Bastille more than realized; and his spirit sank within him. Cut off from all communication with any human being, he had now no means of making his situation known; and the horrible idea of the torture shook all his resolution and unmanned his heart. It would hardly be fair to pursue the course of his reflections any farther; for if, when he remembered his happy cottage in the wood of Mantes, and his wife, and his little ones, a momentary thought of disclosing all he knew crossed the Woodman's mind, the next instant, the ruin of the Queen, the death of the good Count de Blenau, and a train of endless ills and horrors to those who confided in him, flashed across his imagination, and nerved his heart to better things. He called to mind every generous principle of his nature; and though but a humble peasant, he struggled nobly against the dishonouring power of fear. Sleep, however, was out of the question; and he sat mournfully on the straw that had been placed for his bed, watching the light in the lantern, as inch by inch it burned away, till at last it gleamed for a moment in the socket--sank--rose again with a bright flash, and then became totally extinguished. He now remained in utter darkness, and a thousand vague and horrible fancies crowded upon his imagination while he sat there, calculating how near it was to day, when he fancied that even the momentary presence of the gaoler would prove some relief to the blank solitude of his situation. Hour after hour, however, passed away, and no glimpse of light told him it was morning. At length the door opened and the gaoler appeared, bringing with him a fresh lighted lamp, thus offering a frightful confirmation of Philip's fears that the beams of day never penetrated to the place of his confinement. The gaoler took down the lantern, and having fastened the lamp in its place, gave to the unfortunate Woodman a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water. "Come!" exclaimed Fouchard, in a tone which spoke no great pleasure in the task; "get up; I am to take off your irons for you: and truly, there is no great use of them, for if you were the Devil himself, you could not get out here." "I suppose so," answered Philip. "But I trust that it will not be long before I am released altogether." "Why, I should guess that it would not," answered the gaoler, in somewhat of a sarcastic tone, still continuing to unlock the irons; "People do not in general stay here very long." "How so?" demanded Philip anxiously, misdoubting the tone in which the other spoke.