n charge, and he was marched away across the
parade to the prison. This was a stone building, one story in height,
with small grated windows, and stout oaken door studded with iron
nails. Inside there were two rooms, one on each side of the entrance.
These rooms were low, and the floor, which was laid on the earth, was
composed of boards, which were decayed and moulded with damp. The
ceiling was low, and the light but scanty. A stout table and stool
formed the only furniture, while a bundle of mouldy straw in one
corner was evidently intended to be his bed. Into this place Claude
entered; the door was fastened, and he was left alone.

On finding himself alone in this place, he sat upon the stool, and
for some time his thoughts were scarcely of a coherent kind. It was
not easy for him to understand or realize his position, such a short
interval had elapsed since he was enjoying the sweets of an interview
with Mimi. The transition had been sudden and terrible. It had cast
him down from the highest happiness to the lowest misery. A few
moments ago, and all was bright hope; now all was black despair.
Indeed, his present situation had an additional gloom from the very
happiness which he had recently enjoyed, and in direct proportion to
it. Had it not been for that last interview, he would not have known
what he had lost.

Hope for himself there was none. Even under ordinary circumstances,
there could hardly have been any chance of his escape; but now, after
Cazeneau had so nearly lost his life, there could be nothing in store
for him but sure and speedy death. He saw that he would most
undoubtedly be tried, condemned, and executed here in Louisbourg, and
that there was not the slightest hope that he would be sent to France
for his trial.

Not long after Claude had been thrust into his prison, a party
entered the citadel, bearing with them a litter, upon which reclined
the form of a feeble and suffering man. It was Cazeneau. The wound
which Claude had given him had not been fatal, after all; and he had
recovered sufficiently to endure a long journey in this way; yet it
had been a severe one, and had made great ravages in him. He appeared
many years older. Formerly, he had not looked over forty; now he
looked at least as old as Pere Michel. His face was wan; his
complexion a grayish pallor; his frame was emaciated and weak. As he
was brought into the citadel, the commandant came out from his
residence to meet him, accompan