came near him till late in the day, when he was brought a basin of
thin soup and a hunch of coarse ammunition bread. He spoke to his
jailers, asking for more and better food, but obtained no reply. He
asked them for paper, pens, and ink; he wished, he said, to make a
full statement of his case to the British Embassy, and demand its
protection. Still no reply. Maddened by this contemptuous treatment,
and despairing almost of justice, he begged, entreated the warder to
take pity on him, to tell him at least how long they meant to keep him
there in such terrible solitude, cut off altogether from the advice
and assistance of friends. The warder shook his head stolidly, and at
length broke silence, but only to say, "It is by superior order," then
left him.

Gascoigne passed a terrible night, the second night in durance, but
far worse than the first. He was torn now with apprehensions as to his
fate; circumstances seemed so much against him; the facts, as stated
by the judge, might be grossly misrepresented; but how was he to
dispute them? There was no justice in this miserable country, with
such a partial and one-sided system of law. He began to fear that his
life was in their hands; already he felt his head on the block, under
the shadow of the awful guillotine.

Nor were his personal terrors the only nightmare that visited and oppressed
him. He was harassed, tortured, by the shameless conduct of his wife; of
the woman for whom he had sacrificed everything--profession, fortune, name,
the affection of relatives, the respect of friends. With base,
black-hearted perfidy, she had deserted him for another, had plotted
against him, had helped to bring him into his present terrible straits.

Once again they awoke him, unrefreshed, from the deep sleep haunted by