Probably not one of you; my dear friends, who glance graciously over
this, was ever shut up in a dungeon under expectation of bearing the
unpleasant operation of decapitation within half an hour. It never
happened to myself, either, that I can recollect; so, of course, you
or I personally can form no idea what the sensation may be like; but
in this particular case, tradition saith Sir Norman Kingsley's state
of mind was decidedly depressed. As the door shut violently, he leaned
against it, and listened to his jailers place the great bars into their
sockets, and felt he was shut in, in the dreariest, darkest, dismalest,
disagreeablest place that it had ever been his misfortune to enter.
He thought of Leoline, and reflected that in all probability she was
sleeping the sleep of the just--perhaps dreaming of him, and little
knowing that his head was to be cut off in half an hour.
In course of time morning would come--it was not likely the ordinary
course of nature would be cut off because he was; and Leoline would get
up and dress herself, and looking a thousand times prettier than ever,
stand at the window and wait for him. Ah! she might wait--much good
would it do her; about that time he would probably be--where? It was a
rather uncomfortable question, but easily answered, and depressed him to
a very desponding degree indeed.
He thought of Ormiston and La Masque--no doubt they were billing and
cooing in most approved fashion just then, and never thinking of him;
though, but for La Masque and his own folly, he might have been half
married by this time. He thought of Count L'Estrange and Master Hubert,
and become firmly convinced, if one did not find Leoline the other
would; and each being equally bad, it was about a toss up in agony which
got her.
He thought of Queen Miranda, and of the adage, "put no trust in
princes," and sighed deeply as he reflected what a bad sign of human
nature it was--more particularly such handsome human nature--that she
could, figuratively speaking, pat him on the back one moment, and kick
him to the scaffold the next. He thought, dejectedly, what a fool he
was ever to have come back; or even having come back, not to have
taken greater pains to stay up aloft, instead of pitching abruptly
head-foremost into such a select company without an invitation. He
thought, too, what a cold, damp, unwholesome chamber they had lodged him
in, and how apt he would be to have a bad attack of ague and miasmatic
fever, if they would only let him live long enough to enjoy those
blessings. And this having brought him to the end of his melancholy
meditation, he began to reflect how he could best amuse himself in
the interim, before quitting this vale of tears. The candle was still
blinking feebly on the floor, shedding tears of wax in its feeble
prostration, and it suddenly reminded him of the dwarf's advice to
examine his dark bower of repose. So he picked it up and snuffed it with
his fingers, and held it aloof, much as Robinson Crusoe held the brand
in the dark cavern with the dead goat.