“God of heaven! has it come to this?” I covered my eyes with my hands and sobbed aloud, while tears of pride and passion rained hotly over my cheeks.  This outburst was of short duration.  “I will give them no advantage,” I considered.  “My violence might be perverted.  There are creatures too cold and crafty to conceive of such a thing as natural emotion, and passion with them means insanity.  Thank God, the very power to feel bears with it the power of self-government, and is proof of reason.  I will be calm, and if my life endures put them thus to shame.”—­“You say that I am in the asylum of Dr. Englehart?” I asked, after a pause, during which she had not ceased to dust the furniture and arrange the bed in its pristine order, speckless, with lace-trimmings, pillow-cases smooth as glass, and sheets of lawn, and counterpane of snow.  “If so, call my physician hither; I, his patient, have surely a right to his prompt services.”—­“It is just possible,” I thought, “that interest or compassion may, one or both, still enlist him in my cause—­I can but try.”

A slight embarrassment was evidenced in her countenance as I made this request.  It vanished speedily.

“He is absent just at this time,” she answered, quickly.  “When he returns I will make known your wish to him, if, indeed, he does not call of his own accord.”

“Be done with this shallow farce,” I exclaimed, harshly.  “It shames humanity.  Acknowledge yourself at once the faithful agent of a tyrant and felon, or a pair of them, and I shall respect you more.  Confess that it was the voice of Basil Bainrothe I heard at my cabin-door, and that Captain Van Dorne was imposed upon by that specious scoundrel, even to the point of being conscientiously compelled to falsehood.

“I deny nothing—­I acknowledge nothing,” she said, deliberately.  “You and your friends can settle this between yourselves when they arrive.  Until then, you need not seek to tamper with me—­it will be useless; and I hope you are too much of a lady to be insulting to a person who has no choice but to do her duty.”

She could not more effectually have silenced me, nor more utterly have crushed my hopes.  Yet again I approached her with entreaties.

“I hope you will not refuse to mail my notes, even under these trying circumstances,” I said, extending them to her.

“You can ask Dr. Englehart to do so when he comes,” he answered, gently; “for myself, I am utterly powerless to serve you beyond the walls of this chamber.”

“And how long is this close immurement to continue?” I asked again, after another dreary pause.  “Am I not permitted to breathe the external air—­to exercise?  Is my health to be unconsidered?”

“I know nothing more than I have told you,” she replied.  “I am directed to furnish you with every means of comfort—­with books, flowers, clothing, musical instrument, even, if you desire it; but, for the present, you will not leave these walls, and you will see no society.  The doctor has decided that this is best.”