What had he done all this for? a dream, a baseless vision. How could he ever fancy a being so pure, so loveable, would love a thing of guilt like him? He had lost his name, his honour, his fame; he was the occupant of a gaol, and a felon's death and unhallowed grave were before him,--the fitting meed for such a crime, or rather a succession of crimes like his. There was one thought that still gave him some relief, and this was the thought of his rescue; he would then live to retrieve his character; he felt he could never be worthy the love, but perhaps he might yet gain the friendship, of Ellen. He would leave for a foreign shore, change his name, achieve high renown, and come back meriting at least the _friendship_ of one, of whose love he had now lost all hope of being worthy. This was a better tone of mind, and he began not to repent, but to feel remorse for his crimes. It was the remorse of one of those fallen angels, who yet know no wish even of repentance. Conflicting hopes and fears too, often sinking to despair, took possession of his mind. His morning meal was brought,--he could not partake of it. The day wore through, he became hungry and tired, and he ate some of his prison fare; alas, to what had he brought himself! The knowledge that others were now happy, especially one, and that his name would only be mentioned to be reviled, was maddening; he began to hate all mankind, because he had made them justly hate him; he began to be angry at any one being happy, because he had made himself miserable. Oh! how slowly the hours passed, how he longed for night and darkness. All was sunshine and happiness without, all gloom and misery in his prison; and because he was wretched he felt angry because the sun shone. Would it were night, more congenial to his dark temperament of mind. He looked at the barred window of his room, it was high beyond his reach and the wall was smooth. Oh! if he could only climb and look at the world without, anything was better than the accursed walls of his gaol. A little bird settled on the bars, but it was outside; it warbled a few notes, and then flew away. He hated that bird, because it was happy and he was wretched. The turnkey brought his evening meal; he was a harsh, bad-looking man, and as incommunicative as a stock; he asked him some questions, but surly answers only he got in return. A second night came, and still no rescue. That night he slept, but his sleep was full of horrid dreams. Another day passed through, and still no help. He began to despair, and thought the Captain had promised too much; he could not perform his promise, he would leave him to his fate, _he_ would be hung. Oh, horror! and yet he couldn't do so. But why not? he would not betray him, he had sworn that on the book of God. The Captain knew he would not perjure himself, and would leave him to be executed. What did he care? would God he had never known him. These are your worldly friends, they leave you in the hour of necessity.