Rowland felt himself sinking beneath the powerful grasp of his enemy. In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus.
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