CHAPTER VIII.
The six weeks which had been allotted to me as the term of my captivity
were accomplished, and still Mr. Basil Bainrothe came not--wrote not. I
had seen the month of August glide away, its progress marked only by the
changing fruits and flowers of the season, and the more fervent light
that pierced through the Venetian blinds when turned heavenward, for it
was through these alone that the light of day was permitted to visit my
chamber.
Where, then, was the place of my captivity situated? In the environs of
a great city, possibly, for the wind often blew, laden with fragrance as
from choice rather than extensive gardens, through my casement, and the
shadow of a tall tree impending over the skylight of the bath-room was,
when windy, cast so distinctly on its panes as to convince me of the
neighborhood of an English elm, the foliage of which tree I knew like an
alphabet.
And then, those fairy, Sabbath chimes! Were such musical bells
duplicated in adjacent cities? or was I, indeed, near our old, beloved
church, in which memory so distinctly revealed our ancient, velvet-lined
pew, my father's bowed head, and the venerable pastor rising white-robed
and saintly in his pulpit to bid all the earth keep silent before the
Lord! Conjecture was rife! Thus August passed away.
My birthday had gone by, and the equinox was upon us, with its rapid
changes of sun and storm, when one of these tempests, accompanied by
hail of unusual size, shattered to fragments the skylight of the
bath-room.
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