down his lamp, he made two or three turns across the room, and then,
drawing out his watch, as if to assure himself that it was bedtime,
deliberately undressed and went to bed.

And to sleep?

You will not call him coward, if with closed eyes he lay wakeful upon
his pillow, thinking over the last hour with a heart that beat quick,
though it faltered not, listening vainly for some sound to break the
unearthly silence, and longing for daylight, if, indeed, the light of
day was permitted to visit that lonely cell. It came at last, the
daylight,--though not as it was wont to come to him in his own dear
home, with a fresh morning breath and a fresher song of birds, waking
familiar voices and greeted with endearing accents. How would it be in
that home this morning? How had it been there through the slow hours of
that feverish night? How was it to be thenceforth with those precious
ones, and with him too, whom they all looked to for guidance and
counsel?

He got up and dressed himself a little more carefully than usual,
resolved that there should be no outside telltales of the thoughts that
were struggling within. He had hardly finished dressing when the door
opened. Neither footsteps in the corridor nor the turning of the key had
he heard, but there stood a familiar of the Inquisition, friar in dress,
and with the stony face of a man accustomed to live by lamp-light and
talk in whispers. He brought the prisoner's breakfast,--coffee and
bread. "You have been listening," thought M----; "but I will be even
with you." And to make a fair start, he refused to touch either the
bread or the coffee until the familiar had tasted both.