for some of his
crimes. His brain was in a complete whirl; nothing of a tangible nature,
but that he was there, chained down, and left to starve to death, came
across his intellect. Then a kind of madness, for a moment or two, took
possession of him; he made a tremendous effort to burst asunder the
bands that held him.

But it was in vain. The chains--which had been placed upon Charles
Holland during the first few days of his confinement, when he had a
little recovered from the effects of the violence which had been
committed upon him at the time when he was captured--effectually
resisted Marchdale.

They even cut into his flesh, inflicting upon him some grievous wounds;
but that was all he achieved by his great efforts to free himself, so
that, after a few moments, bleeding and in great pain, he, with a deep
groan, desisted from the fruitless efforts he had better not have
commenced.

Then he remained silent for a time, but it was not the silence of
reflection; it was that of exhaustion, and, as such, was not likely to
last long; nor did it, for, in the course of another five minutes, he
called out loudly.

Perhaps he thought there might be a remote chance that some one
traversing the meadows would hear him; and yet, if he had duly
considered the matter, which he was not in a fitting frame of mind to
do, he would have recollected that, in choosing a dungeon among the
underground vaults of these ruins, he had, by experiment, made certain
that no cry, however loud, from where he lay, could reach the upper air.
And thus had this villain, by the very precautions which he had himself
taken to ensure the safe custody of another, been his own greatest
enemy.

"Help! help! help!" he cried frantically "Varney! Charles Holland! have
mercy upon me, and do not leave me here to starve! Help, oh, Heaven!
Curses on all your heads--curses! Oh, mercy--mercy--mercy!"

In suchlike incoherent expressions did he pass some hours, until, what
with exhaustion and a raging thirst that came over him, he could not
utter another word, but lay the very picture of despair and discomfited
malice and wickedness.

CHAPTER LXIX.

FLORA BANNERWORTH AND HER MOTHER.--THE EPISODE OF CHIVALRY.

[Illustration]

Gladly we turn from such a man as Marchdale to a consideration of the
beautiful and accomplished Flora Bannerworth, to whom we may, without
destroying in any way the interest of our plot, predict a much happier
destiny than, pro