Probably not one of you; my dear friends, who glance graciously over

this, was ever shut up in a dungeon under expectation of bearing the

unpleasant operation of decapitation within half an hour. It never

happened to myself, either, that I can recollect; so, of course, you

or I personally can form no idea what the sensation may be like; but

in this particular case, tradition saith Sir Norman Kingsley's state

of mind was decidedly depressed. As the door shut violently, he leaned

against it, and listened to his jailers place the great bars into their

sockets, and felt he was shut in, in the dreariest, darkest, dismalest,

disagreeablest place that it had ever been his misfortune to enter.

He thought of Leoline, and reflected that in all probability she was

sleeping the sleep of the just--perhaps dreaming of him, and little

knowing that his head was to be cut off in half an hour.

In course of time morning would come--it was not likely the ordinary

course of nature would be cut off because he was; and Leoline would get

up and dress herself, and looking a thousand times prettier than ever,

stand at the window and wait for him. Ah! she might wait--much good

would it do her; about that time he would probably be--where? It was a

rather uncomfortable question, but easily answered, and depressed him to

a very desponding degree indeed.

He thought of Ormiston and La Masque--no doubt they were billing and

cooing in most approved fashion just then, and never thinking of him;

though, but for La Masque and his own folly, he might have been half

married by this time. He thought of Count L'Estrange and Master Hubert,

and become firmly convinced, if one did not find Leoline the other

would; and each being equally bad, it was about a toss up in agony which

got her.

He thought of Queen Miranda, and of the adage, "put no trust in

princes," and sighed deeply as he reflected what a bad sign of human

nature it was--more particularly such handsome human nature--that she

could, figuratively speaking, pat him on the back one moment, and kick

him to the scaffold the next. He thought, dejectedly, what a fool he

was ever to have come back; or even having come back, not to have

taken greater pains to stay up aloft, instead of pitching abruptly

head-foremost into such a select company without an invitation. He

thought, too, what a cold, damp, unwholesome chamber they had lodged him

in, and how apt he would be to have a bad attack of ague and miasmatic

fever, if they would only let him live long enough to enjoy those

blessings. And this having brought him to the end of his melancholy

meditation, he began to reflect how he could best amuse himself in

the interim, before quitting this vale of tears. The candle was still

blinking feebly on the floor, shedding tears of wax in its feeble

prostration, and it suddenly reminded him of the dwarf's advice to

examine his dark bower of repose. So he picked it up and snuffed it with

his fingers, and held it aloof, much as Robinson Crusoe held the brand

in the dark cavern with the dead goat.




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