Second hour.  He rose from the stone floor after a vain attempt to sleep.  “Oh, no!” cried he, “sleep is for those who are well and happy, and who could enjoy themselves as well awake; it won’t come to me to save a poor wretch from despair.  I must tire myself, and I am too cold to sleep.  Here goes for a warm.”  He groped to the wall, and keeping his hand on it went round and round like a caged tiger.  “Hawes hopes to drive me to Bedlam.  I’ll do the best I can for myself to spite him.  May he lie in a place narrower than this, and almost as dark, with his jaw down and his toes up before the year is out, curse him!” But the poor wretch’s curses quavered away into sobs and tears.  “Oh, what have I done to be used so as I am here?  They drive me to despair, then drive me to hell for despairing.  Patience, or I shall go mad.  Patience!  Patience!” This hour was passed cursing and weeping and groping for warmth and fatigue—­in vain.

Third hour.  The man sat rocking himself to and fro, trying not to think of anything.  For now the past, too, was coming with all its weight upon him; every minute he started up as if an adder had stung him; crawled about his cell seeking refuge in motion and finding none; then he threw himself on the floor and struggled for sleep.  Sleep would not come so sought; and now his spirits were quite cowed.  He would cringe to Hawes; he would lick the dust at his feet to get out of this horrible place; who could he get to go and tell the governor he was penitent.  He listened at the door; he rapped; no one came.  He put his ear to the ground and listened; no sound—­blackness, silence, solitude.  “They have left me here to die,” shrieked the despairing man, and he flung himself on the floor and writhed upon the hard stone.  “It must be morning, and no one comes near me; this is my tomb!” Fear came upon him, and trembling and a cold sweat bedewed his limbs; and once more the past rushed over him with tenfold force; days of happiness and comparative innocence now forfeited forever.  His whole life whirled round before his eyes in a panorama, scene dissolving into scene with inconceivable rapidity; thus passed more than two hours; and now remorse and memory concentrated themselves on one dark spot in this man’s history.  “She is in the tomb,” cried he, “and all through me, and that is why I am here.  This is my grave.  Do you see me, Mary?—­she is here.  The spirits of the dead can go anywhere.”  Then he trembled and cried for help.  Oh! for a human voice or a human footstep!—­none.  His nerves and senses were now shaken.  He cried aloud most piteously for help.  “Mr. Fry, Mr. Hodges, help! help! help!  The cell is full of the dead, and devils are buzzing round me waiting to carry me away—­they won’t wait much longer.”  He fancied something supernatural passed him like a wind.  He struck wildly at it.  He flung himself madly against the door to escape it; he fell back bruised and bleeding and lay a while in stupor.