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Upon the unfortunate gentleman, now committed to an irksome and most apprehensive solitude, fell a score of little demons of melancholy and alarm. To men of his fibre there is no chastening so bitter as confinement; and though with the master-rogue he had borne himself like the spirited knight of destiny he was, no sooner was he left alone than he found his indignation subordinated to reflections that were distracting to the last degree.
What would his companions think had become of him? and, failing his return, would they follow in his tracks and fall into that selfsame snare?