But it was not a thing to be mended by lamentation; whilst madness raged in the unhappy, wicked wretch, he was to be kept bound, and rendered as helpless by cords and lines as Tom in his sanity had been by leg-irons and handcuffs. Mr. Bates from time to time looked in upon him, cut up his meat, fed him, and gave him drink. I never went near the monster’s cabin nor set eyes upon him. If Tom looked in, Rotch spat at him, howled, expressed by contortions and grimaces a hundred hellish passions, and struggled with fury and with the power of a giant to liberate himself that he might get at him. The madman’s cabin-door was in various ways strengthened to provide against all possibility of his breaking out. Otherwise he lay lodged as securely as if his prison had been the sentinelled and barricaded ’tweendecks of the _Childe Harold_. This was his condition for about a week, dating from the hour of his going mad; Bates then told us that the fellow was cooling down and exhibiting some return of mind; a small light of intelligence was in his eyes, and the fire of insanity was waning in them. He begged for the freedom of his limbs, and Bates gave him the use of his arms. One morning the mate came out of Rotch’s berth, and said to me, who was sitting at the cabin table: ‘A strange change has come over that miserable creature. He cries like a whipped boy, and his mind seems in a state of panic terror. He lay hold of my hand just now and wriggled as though to fall upon his knees, and implored me not to let Captain Butler come near him. “He’ll hang me,” he whimpered; “that’s what he’s keeping me here for. Why don’t he send me ashore? I’m not fit to die. I’ve got a wife and children dependent upon me.” Then he blazed out: “But he dursn’t hang me. It would be the bloodiest of all murders to swing a poor sick man like me!” And he muttered about having a house of furniture and a little money at home, all of which he’d give me if I’d smuggle a knife into his berth, and then send Captain Butler to him alone on pretence of hearing him confess.’ It was on Friday that Bates told me this. On the following Sunday we sat down to dinner as usual at one o’clock. It was a very quiet day, clear and bright; the brig was flapping leisurely along clothed to her royals before a small air of hot wind blowing almost directly over the stern. Tom put a slice of pork on a plate, and Bates cut it up to carry it with biscuit, a pannikin of rum and water, and other matters to Rotch’s berth. The mate went to the door of Rotch’s cabin, and put the tray down to turn the key and shift one of the uprights which protected the entrance. My eye was upon him; he opened the door, cried out, and sprang back, tossing his arms with a gesture of horror and consternation. ‘What is it?’ called Tom. ‘Come and look, Butler! Come and see for yourself!’ cried the mate.