The morning passed slowly, though he helped it along as well as he could
by repeating verses and writing a sonnet on the wall with his pencil.
Dinner came: a good meal, more substantial than dungeon-air could give
an appetite for; but he ate it. Supper followed,--brought by the same
silent familiar who had served breakfast and dinner, and who still came
with the same noiseless step, set the dishes upon the table, tasted the
food as the Doctor bade him, and then went silently away.

Five days passed, slowly, monotonously, wearily. Five nights of
unwelcome dreams and sleep that brought no rest. The close air and
narrow bounds began to tell upon his appetite and strength. He had soon
gone over his poets. Fortunately, they were well chosen and would bear
repeating. The fountain in his own mind, too, was still full, and he
found great relief in declaiming extempore verses in a loud voice, and
writing out those that pleased him best. But could he hold out? for it
was evidently intended to wear him down by anxiety and solitude, and
when they had broken his spirits bring him to an examination.

At last a new face appeared: not cold like that of the familiar, nor
wreathed in smiles like that of a successful enemy, but wearing a decent
expression of gravity tempered by compassion. And "How do you do,
Doctor?" asked the visitor in a soothing voice, trained like his face to
tell lies at his bidding.

"Well, Father, perfectly well."

"I am very glad to hear it. I was afraid your appetite might have
suffered from the sudden change in your mode of life."

"Not in the least. I have a sound stomach, and can digest anything you