When Edward L'Estrange was first confined in prison, his mind was not yet settled from its passions; the whole of the first night he paced his cell up and down, and black thoughts filled his mind. He had the Captain's word he would be rescued,--he would yet have free scope for revenge. He felt doubly angry; first at the total miscarriage of his time-wrought plot, secondly at the absurd delay and loss of precious moments he had made in his useless attempts to convince a woman against her will. If he had only been quicker!--if he had used more despatch in the business! Then he was vexed at being caught at so dastard an endeavour; he was vexed to think what the Captain would say,--he was now perhaps laughing over his grog at the failure! Yet he would be rescued;--he would have a sweet revenge! He would enter the Towers disguised, and challenge the Earl to mortal combat--nay, he would assassinate him; he would break the proud heart of Ellen; she would not love _him_,--he would be avenged on him she did love. Oh! how he abused himself for his lack of courage. If she was only once more in his power! These, and a hundred other such thoughts, coursed his mind as he marched round his prison; and he fancied every minute he should hear the door open, and his liberty would be gained. The hours of darkness fled by, and the sanguine thoughts he had cherished during the night began to cool with the first gray dawn; his spirits fell, a reaction took place, and his mind became less and less sanguine, till he felt low--very low. The excitement of the night passed away with its shades; with the morning a very different train of thoughts arose. He began to see things in their true light; he saw himself first an angry lover--angry because the girl he loved did not love him; then he had become a companion of men worse than himself, he had touched pitch and not escaped its defilement; then he had been a false friend to the Earl, a guest for whom his noble host had sought with sorrow, and one who had been guilty of a breach of all the laws of hospitality, and who had basely turned his heel against him whose bread he ate. He had sunk lower still, he had been the accuser of innocence, he had filled a happy home with tears, he had abducted a high-souled pure maiden, and had he not been stayed in his villany he would have perhaps driven her to death; he had been caught in his wickedness, had attempted the life of one, been the murderer of another, and a third was placed at the doors of the grave by his hand.