down its before forsaken path.  The powerful impulse of hope, stimulated by this successful act, made him curse his supineness in calmly yielding to the awful fate which awaited him.  His best hours—­his hours of unimpaired strength—­had now passed away; there was no fountain at which he could renew it.  But energy now burned within him, and, like an invisible power, seemed to drive him on to some great act.  The impulse was irresistible; hopeless as his case had before appeared, he determined to escape.  But how?  This question had not yet presented itself.  Escape from the jail!—­from death!—­himself,—­more than himself, his wife!  Stone walls lost their appalling firmness, and were no more than downy masses, which his breath could blow away.

Animated by this irresistible impulse, he took the shovel, and sounded upon the walls; but they were everywhere firm and solid beneath his blow.  It seemed useless to his usually inert mind, and he was about to abandon himself again to the jaws of despair, when a new thought suggested itself.  Fired with the inspiration of the new idea, he impulsively proceeded to carry it into execution.  By the side of the wall, with vigorous strokes, he commenced digging, with the intention of undermining it.  Without a thought of his enfeebled body, he plied the shovel with the energy of desperation.  Instead of making a calm calculation, and proceeding with such an economy of strength as would enable him to complete the work, he labored as though the task before him could be easily and quickly accomplished.

His wife, somewhat revived by the draught she had taken, penetrated the purpose of her husband; but she saw that his strength must entirely fail him ere the work could be accomplished.

“You must husband your strength, Francois,” said she; “rest a little.”

“The hope of deliverance is too strong to let me sacrifice another moment in idleness,” replied Dalhousie, without ceasing from his labors.

“But, Francois, you will kill yourself, if you work so hard.”

“That would be an honorable death, at least.”

“And leave me to linger here?—­No, let us die together, if die we must.  Perhaps I can help you,”—­and she strove to rise.

“Do not rise, Delia,—­keep quiet; I am strong, and will yet deliver you from this dungeon.  Lay quiet, dear; do not add to my distress.”

“I fear I must lay still,—­I cannot rise,” said she, sinking back with the exhaustion of the effort.

Dalhousie threw down his shovel, and hastened to her side.

“Do not attempt to rise again, dear,” said he.  “Let me get you some more water.”

He again filled the rude cup at the pit, and, after she had taken a long draught of it, he laved her head, an operation which appeared to refresh her.

“Do you feel better?”

“Much better.”

“Now keep perfectly quiet, and I will resume my task.”

“I will; but pray, Francois, do not work so hard; temper your enthusiasm with reason.  You cannot succeed, unless you are careful.”