andles which one of the passengers had insanely thrown into the
long-boat. And here he had been burning away his very life!

By the transient illumination of one of the tapers, he looked at his
watch. It had stopped at eleven--but eleven that day, or the preceding
night? The funeral, he knew, had left the church at ten. How many hours
had passed since then? Of what duration had been his swoon? Alas! it
was no longer possible for him to measure those hours which crawl like
snails by the wretched, and fly like swallows over the happy.

He picked up the candle, and seated himself on the stone steps. He was
a sanguine man, but, as he weighed the chances of escape, the prospect
appalled him. Of course he would be missed. His disappearance under the
circumstances would surely alarm his friends; they would institute a
search for him; but who would think of searching for a live man in
the cemetery of Montmartre? The prefet of police would set a hundred
intelligences at work to find him; the Seine might be dragged, _les
miserables_ turned over at the Morgue; a minute description of him would
be in every detective's pocket; and he--in M. Dorine's family tomb!

Yet, on the other hand, it was here, he was last seen; from this point
a keen detective would naturally work up the case. Then might not the
undertaker return for the candlestick, probably not left by design? Or,
again, might not M. Dorine send fresh wreaths of flowers, to take the
place of those which now diffused a pungent, aromatic odor throughout
the chamber? Ah! what unlikely chances! But if one of these things did
not happen speedily, it had better never happen. How long could he keep
life in himself?

With his pocket-knife Wentworth cut the half-burned candle into four
equal parts. "To-night," he meditated, "I will eat the first of these
pieces; to-morrow, the second; to-morrow evening, the third; the next
day, the fourth; and then--then I 'll wait!"

He had taken no breakfast that morning, unless a cup of coffee can
be called a breakfast. He had never been very hungry before. He was
ravenously hungry now. But he postponed the meal as long as practicable.
It must have been near midnight, according to his calculation, when he
determined to try the first of his four singular repasts. The bit of
white-wax was tasteless; but it served its purpose.

His appetite for the time appeased, he found a new discomfort. The
humidity of the walls, and the wind that crept throu