Madrid.

Often, in the darkness, oppressed for breath, jolted, bruised, unable to
control his thoughts, or even his voice, he expected to perish; yet no
fainting-fit, no moment of utter unconsciousness pityingly came to his
relief, far less did any human heart have compassion on his suffering.

At last, at last he was unbound, and led, still with his head covered,
into a small, dark room.

Here he was released from the sack, but again loaded with chains.

When he was left alone and had regained the capacity to think, he felt
convinced that he was in one of the dungeons of the Inquisition. Here
were the damp walls, the wooden bench, the window in the ceiling, of
which he had heard. He was soon to learn that he had judged correctly.

His body was granted a week's rest, but during this horrible week he did
not cease to upbraid himself as a traitor, and execrate the fate which
had used him a second time to hurl a friend and benefactor into ruin.
He cursed himself, and when he thought of the "word" "fortune, fortune!"
he gnashed his teeth scornfully and clenched his fist.

His young soul was darkened, embittered, thrown off its balance. He saw
no deliverance, no hope, no consolation. He tried to pray, to God, to
Jesus Christ, to the Virgin, to the Saints; but they all stood before
him, in a vision, with lifeless features and paralyzed arms. For him,
who had relied on "Fortune," and behaved like a fool, they felt no pity,
no compassion, they would not lend their aid.