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not explain the cause of her grief. She only murmured something
that looked like reproaches of her lover. "He is a villain!" she
said; "but God forgive him, as I do!"

I left no means untried to obtain her confidence, but it was the
first time I was quite unable to ascertain why she distressed
herself to such an excess. "I will return tomorrow morning," she
said, one evening on parting from me; "I will, indeed." But the
next morning came, and my coffee was brought by her mother; the
next, and the next, by the under-jailers; and Angiola continued
grievously ill. The under-jailers, also, brought me very unpleasant
tidings relating to the love-affair; tidings, in short, which made
me deeply sympathize with her sufferings. A case of seduction!
But, perhaps, it was the tale of calumny. Alas! I but too well
believed it, and I was affected at it more than I can express;
though I still like to flatter myself that it was false. After
upwards of a month's illness, the poor girl was taken into the
country, and I saw her no more.

It is astonishing how deeply I felt this deprivation, and how much
more horrible my solitude now appeared. Still more bitter was the
reflection that she, who had so tenderly fed, and watched, and
visited me in my sad prison, supplying every want and wish within
her power, was herself a prey to sorrow and misfortune. Alas! I
could make her no return; yet, surely she will feel aware how truly
I sympathize with her; that there is no effort I would not make to
afford her comfort and relief, and that I shall never cease to offer
up my prayers for her, and to bless her for her goodness to a
wretched prisoner.

Though her visits had been too brief, they were enough to break upon
the horrid monotony of my solitude. By suggesting and comparing our
ideas, I obtained new views and feelings, exercised some of the best
and sweetest affections, gave a zest to life, and even threw a sort
of lustre round my misfortunes.

Suddenly the vision fled, and my dungeon became to me really like a
living tomb. A strange sadness for many days quite oppressed me. I
could not even write: it was a dark, quiet, nameless feeling, in no
way partaking of the violence and irritation which I had before
experienced. Was it that I had become more inured to adversity,
more philosophical, more of a Christian? Or was it really that the
extremely enervating heat of my dungeon had so prostrated my powers
that I could no longer feel the pangs of excessive grief. Ah, no!
for I can well recollect that I then felt it to my inmost soul; and,
perhaps, more intensely from the want both of will and power to give
vent to it by agitation, maledictions, and cries. The fact is, I
believe, that I had been severely schooled by my past sufferings,
and was resigned to the will of God. I had so often maintained that
it was a mark of cowardice to complain, that, at length, I succeeded

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