He stretched himself on his bed, and endeavoured to sleep, but every now and then he started as if an adder had stung him; he started and groaned, then he turned round, covered his face with his handkerchief and remained quiet for awhile.
If he could only sleep he would be satisfied, but he found this impossible. The place was cold, damp, and cheerless.
He arose and crept towards the door of the cell. What would he give to see it opened and have free passage accorded him?
He listened at the door for some time; he could not detect the faintest sound, save the beatings of his own heart.
He shouted out as loudly as he could, and his voice reverberated through the cell, making strange and uncouth echoes.
He beat his fist violently against the door, the only effect of which was to bruise his hands; no one answered—there was nothing for him but darkness, silence, and solitude.
“They have no compassion, no feeling, and have left me here to die!” he ejaculated. “Oh, the merciless wretches!”
A thousand fugitive thoughts flitted through his brain; the incidents of his life were pictured before him with inconceivable rapidity.
He had some feelings of remorse, and made good resolutions for his future conduct, which were afterwards broken, like others he had made when in trial and suffering, and now remorse and memory contracted themselves on one dark spot in Charles Peace’s history.
Fear came upon him, an icy tremour crept through his frame, and a feeling of faintness came over him.