"As the Rossignol has not returned," said Enrico, "you may take possession of his bed. I warrant it that you have been accustomed to a more soft and dainty couch! I must go below to prepare the banquet."

So saying, Enrico groped his way back to the floor of the cavern; while Horace, dizzy and bewildered by the strange events of the night, gave a deep sigh of relief at finding himself in comparative solitude. He threw himself down on the heap of leaves, resting his burning forehead on his arm, and tried to collect his scattered thoughts and realize his position.

"What a strange, wild place this is! Shall I ever leave it alive?—Shall I ever look upon the sunshine, or feel the pure breath of heaven? What horrors these walls may have witnessed! Could they speak, what fearful tales of crime might they disclose! And it is more than probable that, ere a week shall have passed, another may be added to the list."

Horace changed his position in feverish restlessness, and a sharp thrill of pain reminded him of the fetters on his limbs. "There would be none to lift a hand, or to speak a word in my defence; no, nor to feel pity for my youth, whatever I might have to endure! Even this Enrico, who seems somewhat less brutal than the rest, would shoot me dead on the spot rather than suffer his captive to escape. Oh, my mother, my poor mother, how little you ever expected your son to be in such a situation as this!"

Then Horace recalled how, ever since he could remember, his parent had been wont to come and sit at night by his bed-side, stroke back his curly hair, and talk to him of holy things, and tell him how much she loved him. These nightly visits, once a pleasure to both, had within the last year become a cause of painful feeling between Horace and his mother. The youth had grown jealous of being treated like a child; it had annoyed him to be disturbed from his desk or some interesting book by the entrance of his mother at her regular hour; to be chidden for sitting up late, or warned of the danger of fire. Horace had become so impatient et the interruption, the reproof and the warning, that he had at last actually locked his door, answering his mother's "good-night" without turning the key to admit her.

Mrs. Cleveland had been deeply wounded, Horace hardly guessed how deeply, but it was agony now upon this his first night of captivity to recall the sound of her step in the passage, the tone of her plaintive "good-night," and to think that that step—that voice—might be heard by his ear no more. Oh, why had he not loved her better?—Why, why had he not always welcomed the presence of one so dear?

With this train of thought came linked another; it was not only in filial piety that Horace Cleveland had failed: his neglect had not been only towards his mother. Carefully brought up as he had been, the youth had, with tolerable regularity, observed the outward forms of religion, and conscience had been easily satisfied that all was right with his soul.

Horace had mistaken reverence for devotion, and belief in God's truth for faith. But such a shadow of religion could not support him under the pressure of real trials, or make tolerable the prospect of death: it had no strength or solidity in it. Horace could not realize the presence of a heavenly Father in the dark, gloomy cave, nor was the psalmist's assurance his,—

"The Lord is my light and any salvation, whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?"

In courage and spirit he was by no means deficient—but human courage and spirit will bend under the pressure of protracted trial; that terrible walk in shackles had for the time exhausted the energies of Horace, and in that gloomy abode of evil, he felt desolate and wretched indeed.