no
knowing what may happen. If I should not visit you till I come to
liberate you--on the evening of the second day, or the morning of the
third--you must not be at all surprised, my good fellow. There is plenty
of food-and water to last you. But mind, on no account descend the
stone-stairs till I come for you."

With that, bidding his guest adieu, he left him.

Israel stood glancing pensively around for a time. By and by, moving the
rolled mattress under the two air-slits, he mounted, to try if aught
were visible beyond. But nothing was to be seen but a very thin slice of
blue sky peeping through the lofty foliage of a great tree planted near
the side-portal of the mansion; an ancient tree, coeval with the ancient
dwelling it guarded.

Sitting down on the Mattress, Israel fell into a reverie.

"Poverty and liberty, or plenty and a prison, seem to be the two horns
of the constant dilemma of my life," thought he. "Let's look at the
prisoner."

And taking up the shaving-glass, he surveyed his lineaments.

"What a pity I didn't think to ask for razors and soap. I want shaving
very badly. I shaved last in France. How it would pass the time here.
Had I a comb now and a razor, I might shave and curl my hair, and keep
making a continual toilet all through the two days, and look spruce as a
robin when I get out. I'll ask the Squire for the things this very night
when he drops in. Hark! ain't that a sort of rumbling in the wall? I
hope there ain't any oven next door; if so, I shall be scorched out.
Here I am, just like a rat in the wainscot. I wish there was a low
window to look out of. I wonder what Doctor Franklin is doing now, and
Paul Jones? Hark! there's a bird singing in the leaves. Bell for dinner,
that."

And for pastime, he applied himself to the beef and bread, and took a
draught of the wine and water.

At last night fell. He was left in utter darkness. No Squire.

After an anxious, sleepless night, he saw two long flecks of pale gray
light slanting into the cell from the slits, like two long spears. He
rose, rolled up his mattress, got upon the roll, and put his mouth to
one of the griffins' months. He gave a low, just audible whistle,
directing it towards the foliage of the tree. Presently there was a
slight rustling among the leaves, then one solitary chirrup, and in
three minutes a whole chorus of melody burst upon his ear.

"I've waked the first bird," said he to himself, with a smile, "and he's
wake