dition with which my transit from the ship
had been effected.

During the first three weeks of my confinement the deep silence that
prevailed about me had led me to adopt the opinion that I was the
occupant of a _maison de sante_. I had once driven past one on Staten
Island, where a friend of my father's--about whose condition he came to
inquire personally--had been immured for years. I did not alight with
him when he left the carriage to make these inquiries, but I perfectly
remembered the old gray stone building, with its ancient elms, and the
impression of gloom and awe it had left on my mind. But this idea was
presently dispelled.

I was awakened one morning, in the fourth week of my sojourn in
captivity, by the sound of chimes long familiar to my ear, the duplicate
of which I had not supposed to be in existence. At first I feared it was
some mirage of the ear, so to speak, instead of eye, that reflected back
that fairy melody, which had rung its accompaniment to my whole
childhood and youth; but, when, after the lapse of seven days, it was
repeated, I became convinced that its reality was unquestionable, and
that neither impatience nor indignation had so impaired my senses as to
reproduce those sounds through the medium of a fevered imagination.

Were these delicious bells, a recent addition to the cupola of our grim
asylum, bestowed by some benevolent hand that sought to mark and lend
enchantment to the holy Sabbath-day--even for the sake of the
irresponsible ones within its walls--or was I indeed--? But of this
there could be no question--I dared not hazard such conjecture lest it
drive me mad in reality--I must not!

I groped in thick darkness, and time itself was only measured now by
those sweet chimes, so like our own, and yet so far away. My very clock
one morning was found to have stopped, and was not again repaired or set
in motion. Papers I never saw, had never seen since I came to dwell in
shadow, save that single one so ostentatiously spread before me,
announcing the loss of the Kosciusko and her passengers--a refinement of
cruelty, on the part of those who sent it, worthy of a Japanese.

Rafts had been launched and lost, the survivors stated (the men who had
seized the long-boat, to the exclusion of the women and children); the
sea had swallowed all the remainder. A later statement might refute the
first, but even then none could know the truth with regard to my
identity, for would not Basil Bainro