Such was my situation, when Camilla was suddenly taken ill. A dangerous fever, supposed to be infectious, confined her to her bed. Everyone except the lay-sister appointed to nurse her, avoided her with caution, and feared to catch the disease. She was perfectly delirious, and by no means capable of attending to me. The domina and the nuns admitted to the mystery, had latterly given me over entirely to Camilla’s care: in consequence, they busied themselves no more about me; and occupied by preparing for the approaching festival, it is more than probable that I never once entered into their thoughts. Of the reason of Camilla’s negligence, I have been informed since my release by the Mother St.

Ursula; at that time I was very far from suspecting its cause. On the contrary, I waited for my gaoler’s appearance at first with impatience, and afterwards with despair. One day passed away; another followed it; the third arrived. Still no Camilla! Still no food! I knew the lapse of time by the wasting of my lamp, to supply which fortunately a week’s supply of oil had been left me. I supposed, either that the nuns had forgotten me, or that the domina had ordered them to let me perish. The latter idea seemed the most probable; yet so natural is the love of life, that I trembled to find it true. Though embittered by every species of misery, my existence was still dear to me, and I dreaded to lose it. Every succeeding minute proved to me that I must abandon all hopes of relief. I was become an absolute skeleton: my eyes already failed me, and my limbs were beginning to stiffen. I could only express my anguish, and the pangs of that hunger which gnawed my heartstrings, by frequent groans, whose melancholy sound the vaulted roof of the dungeon reechoed. I resigned myself to my fate: I already expected the moment of dissolution, when my guardian angel, when my beloved brother arrived in time to save me.