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had indeed retired, but not to rest, nor did sleep that night convey its wonted balm to his wearied soul and wounded spirit. Like years to his anguished recollection, the hours dragged heavily along their unaccustomed burden, unrelieved even by a momentary oblivion of his miserable situation; for though by fits and starts, as it were, by stolen glimpses into the land of forgetfulness, his eyelids closed on the gloom, it was only to see the form of the liberated Baronet with one hand grasping his golden spoils, appear to triumph in his escape, and with the other pointing in derision to his hopeless victim, insult his captivity, and brave his vengeance.

Awaking with a start, and recovering his consciousness, how inexplicable appeared the conduct of the Baronet! By the commission of so base an action to expose his life to the scaffold,—could it possibly be so? was it not some dream, some