But that fate was one altogether undreamt of by Charles Holland, and
wholly without his control.

It was a fate which would have been his, but for the murderous purpose
which had brought Marchdale to the dungeon, and those happy accidents
which had enabled Charles to change places with him, and breathe the
free, cool, fresh air; while he left his enemy loaded with the same
chains that had encumbered his limbs so cruelly, and lying on that same
damp dungeon floor, which he thought would be his grave.

We mentioned that as Charles left the ruins, the storm, which had been
giving various indications of its coming, seemed to be rapidly
approaching.

It was one of these extremely local tempests which expend all their
principal fury over a small space of country; and, in this instance, the
space seemed to include little more than the river, and the few meadows
which immediately surrounded it, and lent it so much of its beauty.

Marchdale soon found that his cries were drowned by the louder voices of
the elements. The wailing of the wind among the ancient ruins was much
more full of sound than his cries; and, now and then, the full-mouthed
thunder filled the air with such a volume of roaring, and awakened so
many echoes among the ruins, that, had he possessed the voices of fifty
men, he could not have hoped to wage war with it.

And then, although we know that Charles Holland would have encountered
death himself, rather than he would have willingly left anything human
to expire of hunger in that dungeon, yet Marchdale, judging of others by
himself, felt by no means sure of any such thing, and, in his horror of
apprehension, fancied that that was just the sort of easy, and pleasant,
and complete revenge that it was in Charles Holland's power to take, and
just the one which would suggest itself, under the circumstances, to his
mind.

Could anything be possibly more full of horror than such a thought?
Death, let it come in any shape it may, is yet a most repulsive and
unwelcome guest; but, when it comes, so united with all that can add to
its terrors, it is enough to drive reason from its throne, and fill the
mind with images of absolute horror.

Tired of shrieking, for his parched lips and clogged tongue would
scarcely now permit him to utter a sound higher than a whisper.
Marchdale lay, listening to the furious storm without, in the last
abandonment of despair.

"Oh! what a death is this," he groaned. "Here, alone--a