sciences?
Murder! murder! murder!" and the wretched man sank upon the ground, and
tried with his hands to grasp the stone floor, as if to cling to it from
some imaginary violence.

Turn we from him to the cell in which another criminal awaits also the
awful coming of his latest morrow.

Pale, motionless, silent, with his face bending over his bosom and hands
clasped tightly upon his knees, Wolfe sat in his dungeon, and collected
his spirit against the approaching consummation of his turbulent and
stormy fate. His bitterest punishment had been already past; mysterious
Chance, or rather the Power above chance, had denied to him the haughty
triumph of self-applause. No sophistry, now, could compare his doom to
that of Sidney, or his deed to the act of the avenging Brutus.

Murder--causeless, objectless, universally execrated--rested, and would
rest (till oblivion wrapped it) upon his name. It had appeared, too,
upon his trial, that he had, in the information he had received, been
the mere tool of a spy in the ministers' pay; and that, for weeks before
his intended deed, his design had been known, and his conspiracy only
not bared to the public eye because political craft awaited a riper
opportunity for the disclosure. He had not then merely been the blind
dupe of his own passions, but, more humbling still, an instrument in the
hands of the very men whom his hatred was sworn to destroy. Not a wreck,
not a straw, of the vain glory for which he had forfeited life and
risked his soul, could he hug to a sinking heart, and say, "This is my
support."

The remorse of gratitude embittered his cup still further. On Mordaunt's
person had been discovered a memorandum of the money anonymously
inclosed to Wolfe on the day of the murder; and it was couched in words
of esteem which melted the fierce heart of the republican into the only
tears he had shed since childhood. From that time, a sullen, silent
spirit fell upon him. He spoke to none,--heeded none; he made no defence
on trial, no complaint of severity, no appeal from judgment. The iron
had entered into his soul; but it supported, while it tortured. Even
now as we gaze upon his inflexible and dark countenance, no transitory
emotion; no natural spasm of sudden fear for the catastrophe of the
morrow; no intense and working passions, struggling into calm; no
sign of internal hurricanes, rising as it were from the hidden depths,
agitate the surface, or betray the secrets of the unf