The monster, Wild, when he visited my dungeon last night, told me, to add to my misery, that she occupied a cell near me. “I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said. This he accomplished by holding the chain that connected them firmly between his teeth, and squeezing his fingers as closely together as possible, succeeded in drawing his wrists through the manacles. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. “For luck. The only occasional presence other than a skeleton crew of servants was Sebastianus, who occasionally joined Gianfrancesco in the hunt for stag, rabbit, or quail, and then went away for another fortnight. “I tell you it was a lie!” he shouted wildly. Only she hadn’t. To-night all this may seem hard and cruel. m.
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