CHAPTER XIII.
"Trust me, no tortures which the poets feign,
Can match the fierce unutterable pain
He feels who, night and day, devoid of rest,
Carries his own accuser in his breast."
Confined within the dark and gloomy walls of the Bench, in a remote and narrow chamber, nearly obscured from the light of day, De Brooke sat melancholy, musing over his fate, and listening in suspense to the sounds of footsteps, awaiting the coming of Mr. Philimore, who, he doubted not, would call to offer him the faithful services of a friend. Nor was he disappointed, for his prison-door was at length opened, and the very person upon whom his thoughts were engaged appeared.
"Ah, my dear Philimore!" said he, "is that you? have you any tidings for me from my wife?"
Mr. Philimore in reply presented him with a letter, which De Brooke, after briefly apologizing for his abrupt manner and address, hastened to peruse.
"What misery," exclaimed he, "have I brought on this incomparable woman, and yet she would
