And now the unhappy young man lay on his bed of straw, in an ignominious
cell, cursing the gold that had tempted, and the weakness and folly that
had yielded and rushed into the snare. Louis had visited him, but his
visit had afforded no consolation. What was pity or sympathy without the
power to release him? Nothing, yea, worse than nothing. He could not
tell the hour, for time, counted by the throbs of an agonized heart,
seems to have the attribute of eternity--endless duration. He knew it
was night by the lamp which had been brought in with the bread and
water, which stood untasted by him. He had not noticed the darkening
shadow stealing over the grated windows, his soul was so dark within. He
knew, too, that it must be somewhat late, for the lamp grew dimmer and
dimmer, capped by a long, black wick, with a hard, fiery crest.

He heard the key twisting in the rusted lock, the door swinging heavily
open, and supposed the jailor was examining the cells before retiring to
rest. He was confirmed in this belief by seeing his figure through the
opening, but when another figure glided in, and the jailor retreated,
locking the door behind him, he knew that his prison had received an
unexpected guest. He could not imagine what young boy had thought of
visiting his cell, for he knew not one of the age this youth appeared to
be. He was wrapped in a dark cloak, so long that it swept the prison
floor, and a dark fur cap pulled far over the forehead, shaded his face.

Clinton raised himself on his elbow and called out, in a gloomy tone,
"Who is there?"

The youth advanced with slow steps, gathering up the sweeping folds of
his cloak as he walked, and sunk down upon the wooden bench placed
against the damp brick wall. Lifting his hands and clasping them
together, he bowed his face upon them, while his frame shook with
imprisoned emotion. The hands clasped over his face gleamed like snow in
the dim cell, and they were small and delicate in shape, as a woman's.
The dejected and drooping attitude, the downcast face, the shrouded and
trembling form, the feminine shame visible through the disguise,
awakened a wild hope in his heart. Springing up from his pallet, he
eagerly approached the seeming boy, and exclaimed--

"Helen, Helen--have you relented at last? Do you pity and forgive me? Do
you indeed love me?"

"Ungrateful wretch!" cried a voice far different from Helen's. The
drooping head was quickly raised, the cap dashed from th