I threw myself with avidity upon these humble aliments. They had to all appearance been placed in the vault for several days; the bread was hard, and the water tainted; yet never did I taste food to me so delicious. When the cravings of appetite were satisfied, I busied myself with conjectures upon this new circumstance: I debated whether the basket had been placed there with a view to my necessity. Hope answered my doubts in the affirmative. Yet who could guess me to be in need of such assistance? If my existence was known, why was I detained in this gloomy vault? If I was kept a prisoner, what meant the ceremony of committing me to the tomb? Or if I was doomed to perish with hunger, to whose pity was I indebted for provisions placed within my reach?

A friend would not have kept my dreadful punishment a secret; neither did it seem probable that an enemy would have taken pains to supply me with the means of existence. Upon the whole I was inclined to think that the domina’s designs upon my life had been discovered by some one of my partisans in the convent, who had found means to substitute an opiate for poison: that she had furnished me with food to support me, till she could effect my delivery: and that she was then employed in giving intelligence to my relations of my danger, and pointing out a way to release me from captivity. Yet why then was the quality of my provisions so coarse? How could my friend have entered the vault without the domina’s knowledge? And if she had entered, why was the door fastened so carefully? These reflections staggered me: yet still this idea was the most favourable to my hopes, and I dwelt upon it in preference.