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The attorney's sleep was long and sound; and,
by and by, notwithstanding the exciting nature of
the midnight events, sleep visited the eyes of all
others in the prison, even those of the hapless Hyland.
The misery of his situation was complete.
His hopes of escape, confirmed almost to certainty
by Affidavy in his last visit, in which the
whole plan was explained to him by this honest
gentleman, threw him into a frenzy of joy; and it
was with unspeakable agitation that he listened to
the subdued murmurs below, which told him the
first and most critical scene of the conspiracy had
already begun. How the attempt of Affidavy
upon the head of the jailer terminated has been
already seen; how the scheme might have eventuated,
had this rapacious wretch followed out the
plan he had proposed to the others, which was to
bribe the jailer into connivance, it is not so easy
to say, Lingo being perhaps too much of a philosopher
in his way, to refuse a good price for his
honesty. But Affidavy, while he held the bone in

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his mouth, hungered exceedingly for the shadow,
or, to speak more strictly, for that smaller morsel
destined for the jaws of his friend; and, in consequence,
adopted the foolish device of the `hocussed'
cup, in which he encountered so signal a
failure. While Hyland sat in his cell, devoured
by expectation, the door was opened, and the
jailer's assistant entered, bearing a heavy set of
fetters, which he forthwith proceeded to fasten
upon his limbs. This was the first moment they
were ever thus dishonoured; but the unhappy
youth thought not of the disgrace; he saw at once
that the scheme of flight was defeated, and that
his hopes had been encouraged, only to be blasted.
The agitation of his spirits threw him into a swoon;
rousing from which, he gave himself up to despair,
until his thoughts were diverted into a new channel
by an unexpected commotion below, which was
indeed caused by nothing less than the entrance
into the prison of the five men whom Hanschen
had secretly summoned to his assistance. He
heard them pass into the yard, and inferred at
once that the scheme for his escape was intended
to be turned against his unsuspecting friends. For
this reason, he gave the alarm, the instant he
heard the gate swinging on its hinges, and would
have done so sooner, had he been able to approach
the window, so as to look out upon the proceedings
of the jailer. Let his sufferings be imagined,
when he heard the sudden din of pistols and voices,
followed by execrations and groans, without knowing
aught of the result of the rencounter, except
that it had been fatal to his own hopes. He saw
the jailer look into the apartment, his visage stained
with blood, and then depart without satisfying
his painful curiosity; and then followed a long
period of silence, equally oppressive and

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distracting. Great as was his distress, however, it contributed
in the end to stupify his mind; and towards
morning, he fell into an uneasy slumber, to add
the tortures of the ideal to those of the material
world. From this he was aroused by a noise, as
it seemed, at his window; and starting up, he distinctly
heard a voice pronounce his name. It was
but a whisper, and that fainter than the lowest
chirping of the insects; but he recognized at once
the tones of Oran; and, scarce repressing a cry of
joy, he rushed towards the window. The chain
was still upon his body, and its clash, with the rattling
of the ring by which it was attached to the
floor, told to Oran, as well as to his own spirit,
how vain was the effort. The cell which he inhabited
was in a corner of the building, and the
wall of the yard was perhaps within six or seven
feet of the window, which was more elevated, and
therefore overlooked it. It was possible for a man,
standing on the top of the wall, and of sufficient
strength of body to support himself, lizard-like,
while leaning towards the window, almost to reach
it with his arms; and Hyland, who had noted
these circumstances before, easily understood the
situation of his visiter, which besides being extremely
dangerous, was also exposed to observation.

“I cannot approach, Oran,” he cried in the
same whispering tones; “I am chained to the
floor.”

“Hold forth your hand,” muttered the refugee,
“and cast me the end of your neckcloth. You
shall have files and aquafortis; and to-morrow
night you shall be free. Cast out the neckcloth.”

“I cannot,” replied the prisoner, with a voice of
despair; “I cannot reach the bars, even if I had
files to cut them. What shall I do? Oh, brother,

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brother! why did you leave me? Speak, brother,
for Heaven's sake, speak! Can you help me?”

The refugee remained silent, apparently struck
dumb, either by the reproach of his brother, or by
the discovery of his inability to help himself; and
Hyland, imagining that his silence was owing to
some sudden alarm, held his own peace, awaiting
the event. In a short time, however, the refugee
spoke again: the whisper was as low as before,
but it was broken by some strong tumult of feeling.

“I can not help you, Hyland,” he said,—“unless,
unless—But hold; I will fling a file through
the bars, and you can saw yourself free. Throw
your bed on the floor under the window, that it
may make no noise. Are you ready?”

“I am,” said Hyland; and the next instant he
heard the steel instrument strike upon the bars of
the grating, whence it fell ringing among the
stones in the yard. A second was cast with better
effect, and entering the window, fell upon the
couch. But as if fate now designed to tantalize
the unhappy youth into distraction, he no sooner
sought to obtain it by dragging the bed towards
him, than he heard it fall off upon the floor, where
it remained beyond his reach, and must remain
until discovered by the jailer. This mishap being
communicated to Oran, drew from him an exclamation,
in which Hyland was made aware of his
hopeless situation:

“God help you!” he cried, “I can do no more.”

“Yes, Oran, yes!” exclaimed the prisoner,
“you can help me yet. Throw me a knife”—

“Hah!” said Oran, “and you will use it on the
jailer? ay! as he bears you to the court house, in
the morning! Strike him in the throat—I will be
by, and, perhaps—Well, well, you will at least die
like a man, not like a dog. Will you kill him?”

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“No!” said the youth; “God pardon me the
blood I have shed already: I will never more harm
a human being—no, not even to save my wretched
body from shame. Yet throw it to me, throw it
to me!”

“And for what?” muttered Oran, in tones scarce
audible.

“For what?” replied the prisoner. “Oh God,
do you ask me, brother?”

“For your own bosom then? Ay, can we do no
more? And the lawyers, then, can give you no hope,
not even for money?”

“None, none: I am condemned already—The
knife, the knife!”

“The dream's out!” said Oran, with what
seemed a laugh. “When I was a little boy, and
the rest were but babes about me, I dreamed, one
night, that there were seven of us together, though
there were but four of them born, and that I killed
them. And so they say I have indeed! Well, boy,
I have killed you, as well as the rest, and now I
am alone. You shall have the knife—yet be not
in a hurry. Something may turn up: Sir Guy
may demand a military trial—But no, I am lying
to my own heart: you must die, Hyland, you must
die! for even I cannot help you.”

“The knife will help me.”

“Take it!” said the refugee, with a voice so
loud as to show his feelings had got the better of
his caution,—and indeed his accents betrayed the
most vehement agitation; “take it!” he cried,
flinging it against the window with a motion so
reckless or perturbed, that it did not even strike the
bars, but coming in contact with the stone framework,
it rebounded and fell, like the file, to the
ground below. “Ha ha! you see, brother! there
is no hope for you,—no, not even in the knife!”

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“Brother!” cried Hyland, “you can help me
yet.”

“It is false!” said the other: “my band is broken,
my body bleeding, and now, if they would
send a boy against me, why a boy might take me.”

“Listen, brother—it is my dying prayer,” said
Hyland, “and nothing else can be done. Before
midnight of the coming day—perhaps earlier—I
shall be a doomed man—doomed to death—
doomed to the gallows? Brother, don't let me die
on the gallows! Where is Staples? He can send
a bullet through the eye of a leaping buck; I have
seen him kill a night-hawk on the wing. Brother,
you will be my heir—give him what you will, give
him all, and let him come to-morrow night on the
square, and when he sees a candle held at this
window, let him fire at it,—let him aim well,—at
the candle, brother, at the candle! Oh heaven! do
you not hear me?”

“I hear,” said Oran. “A wild freak that, but
good! ay, boy, good, good, good! But Staples—
ha, ha! Choose another: take the whole band; one
will be as ready to serve you as another.”

Had not the prisoner been prevented by his own
feelings from giving note to any thing save the
mere words of the refugee, he might have detected
the traces of some extraordinary emotion in the
unusual abruptness of his expressions. He even
failed to observe the incongruity between Oran's
invitation to choose an executioner from his whole
band, and the late declaration he had made,
that the band was broken up. He repeated the
name of Staples, adding, “Let it be Staples,
brother, for he is the boldest and truest: he fears
nothing, and he misses nothing.”

“Call him out of the yard then,” said Oran;
“he lies there cold as a stone.”

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