Capítulo 15 de 23

THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM

Impia tortorum longos hic turba furores

Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit.

Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro,

Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent.

[_Quatrain composed for the gates of a market to be erected upon the

site of the Jacobin Club House at Paris_.]

I was sick—sick unto death with that long agony; and when they at

length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my

senses were leaving me. The sentence—the dread sentence of

death—was the last of distinct accentuation which reached my

ears. After that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed

merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed to my soul

the idea of revolution—perhaps from its association in fancy

with the burr of a mill wheel. This only for a brief period, for

presently I heard no more. Yet, for a while, I saw—but with how

terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the black-robed

judges. They appeared to me white—whiter than the sheet upon

which I trace these words—and thin even to grotesqueness; thin

with the intensity of their expression of firmness—of immoveable

resolution—of stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the

decrees of what to me was Fate, were still issuing from those

lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I saw them

fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered because no

sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious

horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable

draperies which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And then my

vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At first

they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white and slender

angels who would save me; but then, all at once, there came a

most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my

frame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery,

while the angel forms became meaningless spectres, with heads of

flame, and I saw that from them there would be no help. And then

there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought

of what sweet rest there must be in the grave. The thought came

gently and stealthily, and it seemed long before it attained full

appreciation; but just as my spirit came at length properly to

feel and entertain it, the figures of the judges vanished, as if

magically, from before me; the tall candles sank into

nothingness; their flames went out utterly; the blackness of

darkness supervened; all sensations appeared swallowed up in a

mad rushing descent as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and

stillness, night were the universe.

I had swooned; but still will not say that all of consciousness

was lost. What of it there remained I will not attempt to define,

or even to describe; yet all was not lost. In the deepest

slumber—no! In delirium—no! In a swoon—no! In death—no! even in

the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man.

Arousing from the most profound of slumbers, we break the

gossamer web of some dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail

may that web have been) we remember not that we have dreamed. In

the return to life from the swoon there are two stages; first,

that of the sense of mental or spiritual; secondly, that of the

sense of physical, existence. It seems probable that if, upon

reaching the second stage, we could recall the impressions of the

first, we should find these impressions eloquent in memories of

the gulf beyond. And that gulf is—what? How at least shall we

distinguish its shadows from those of the tomb? But if the

impressions of what I have termed the first stage are not, at

will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they not come

unbidden, while we marvel whence they come? He who has never

swooned, is not he who finds strange palaces and wildly familiar

faces in coals that glow; is not he who beholds floating in

mid-air the sad visions that the many may not view; is not he who

ponders over the perfume of some novel flower; is not he whose

brain grows bewildered with the meaning of some musical cadence

which has never before arrested his attention.

Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to remember; amid earnest

struggles to regather some token of the state of seeming

nothingness into which my soul had lapsed, there have been

moments when I have dreamed of success; there have been brief,

very brief periods when I have conjured up remembrances which the

lucid reason of a later epoch assures me could have had reference

only to that condition of seeming unconsciousness. These shadows

of memory tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and

bore me in silence down—down—still down—till a hideous dizziness

oppressed me at the mere idea of the interminableness of the

descent. They tell also of a vague horror at my heart, on account

of that heart’s unnatural stillness. Then comes a sense of sudden

motionlessness throughout all things; as if those who bore me (a

ghastly train!) had outrun, in their descent, the limits of the

limitless, and paused from the wearisomeness of their toil. After

this I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is

madness—the madness of a memory which busies itself among

forbidden things.

Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion and sound—the

tumultuous motion of the heart, and, in my ears, the sound of its

beating. Then a pause in which all is blank. Then again sound,

and motion, and touch—a tingling sensation pervading my frame.

Then the mere consciousness of existence, without thought—a

condition which lasted long. Then, very suddenly, thought, and

shuddering terror, and earnest endeavor to comprehend my true

state. Then a strong desire to lapse into insensibility. Then a

rushing revival of soul and a successful effort to move. And now

a full memory of the trial, of the judges, of the sable

draperies, of the sentence, of the sickness, of the swoon. Then

entire forgetfulness of all that followed; of all that a later

day and much earnestness of endeavor have enabled me vaguely to

recall.

So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay upon my back,

unbound. I reached out my hand, and it fell heavily upon

something damp and hard. There I suffered it to remain for many

minutes, while I strove to imagine where and what I could be. I

longed, yet dared not to employ my vision. I dreaded the first

glance at objects around me. It was not that I feared to look

upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be

nothing to see. At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I

quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst thoughts, then, were

confirmed. The blackness of eternal night encompassed me. I

struggled for breath. The intensity of the darkness seemed to

oppress and stifle me. The atmosphere was intolerably close. I

still lay quietly, and made effort to exercise my reason. I

brought to mind the inquisitorial proceedings, and attempted from

that point to deduce my real condition. The sentence had passed;

and it appeared to me that a very long interval of time had since

elapsed. Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself actually dead.

Such a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in fiction, is

altogether inconsistent with real existence;—but where and in

what state was I? The condemned to death, I knew, perished

usually at the autos-da-fe, and one of these had been held on the

very night of the day of my trial. Had I been remanded to my

dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which would not take place

for many months? This I at once saw could not be. Victims had

been in immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon, as well as all

the condemned cells at Toledo, had stone floors, and light was

not altogether excluded.

A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon my

heart, and for a brief period, I once more relapsed into

insensibility. Upon recovering, I at once started to my feet,

trembling convulsively in every fibre. I thrust my arms wildly

above and around me in all directions. I felt nothing; yet

dreaded to move a step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of

a tomb. Perspiration burst from every pore, and stood in cold big

beads upon my forehead. The agony of suspense grew at length

intolerable, and I cautiously moved forward, with my arms

extended, and my eyes straining from their sockets, in the hope

of catching some faint ray of light. I proceeded for many paces;

but still all was blackness and vacancy. I breathed more freely.

It seemed evident that mine was not, at least, the most hideous

of fates.

And now, as I still continued to step cautiously onward, there

came thronging upon my recollection a thousand vague rumors of

the horrors of Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been strange

things narrated—fables I had always deemed them—but yet strange,

and too ghastly to repeat, save in a whisper. Was I left to

perish of starvation in this subterranean world of darkness; or

what fate, perhaps even more fearful, awaited me? That the result

would be death, and a death of more than customary bitterness, I

knew too well the character of my judges to doubt. The mode and

the hour were all that occupied or distracted me.

My outstretched hands at length encountered some solid

obstruction. It was a wall, seemingly of stone masonry—very

smooth, slimy, and cold. I followed it up; stepping with all the

careful distrust with which certain antique narratives had

inspired me. This process, however, afforded me no means of

ascertaining the dimensions of my dungeon; as I might make its

circuit, and return to the point whence I set out, without being

aware of the fact; so perfectly uniform seemed the wall. I

therefore sought the knife which had been in my pocket, when led

into the inquisitorial chamber; but it was gone; my clothes had

been exchanged for a wrapper of coarse serge. I had thought of

forcing the blade in some minute crevice of the masonry, so as to

identify my point of departure. The difficulty, nevertheless, was

but trivial; although, in the disorder of my fancy, it seemed at

first insuperable. I tore a part of the hem from the robe and

placed the fragment at full length, and at right angles to the

wall. In groping my way around the prison, I could not fail to

encounter this rag upon completing the circuit. So, at least I

thought: but I had not counted upon the extent of the dungeon, or

upon my own weakness. The ground was moist and slippery. I

staggered onward for some time, when I stumbled and fell. My

excessive fatigue induced me to remain prostrate; and sleep soon

overtook me as I lay.

Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I found beside me a

loaf and a pitcher with water. I was too much exhausted to

reflect upon this circumstance, but ate and drank with avidity.

Shortly afterward, I resumed my tour around the prison, and with

much toil came at last upon the fragment of the serge. Up to the

period when I fell I had counted fifty-two paces, and upon

resuming my walk, I had counted forty-eight more—when I arrived

at the rag. There were in all, then, a hundred paces; and,

admitting two paces to the yard, I presumed the dungeon to be

fifty yards in circuit. I had met, however, with many angles in

the wall, and thus I could form no guess at the shape of the

vault, for vault I could not help supposing it to be.

I had little object—certainly no hope—in these researches; but a

vague curiosity prompted me to continue them. Quitting the wall,

I resolved to cross the area of the enclosure. At first I

proceeded with extreme caution, for the floor, although seemingly

of solid material, was treacherous with slime. At length,

however, I took courage, and did not hesitate to step firmly;

endeavoring to cross in as direct a line as possible. I had

advanced some ten or twelve paces in this manner, when the

remnant of the torn hem of my robe became entangled between my

legs. I stepped on it, and fell violently on my face.

In the confusion attending my fall, I did not immediately

apprehend a somewhat startling circumstance, which yet, in a few

seconds afterward, and while I still lay prostrate, arrested my

attention. It was this: my chin rested upon the floor of the

prison, but my lips and the upper portion of my head, although

seemingly at a less elevation than the chin, touched nothing. At

the same time my forehead seemed bathed in a clammy vapor, and

the peculiar smell of decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I put

forward my arm, and shuddered to find that I had fallen at the

very brink of a circular pit, whose extent, of course, I had no

means of ascertaining at the moment. Groping about the masonry

just below the margin, I succeeded in dislodging a small

fragment, and let it fall into the abyss. For many seconds I

hearkened to its reverberations as it dashed against the sides of

the chasm in its descent; at length there was a sullen plunge

into water, succeeded by loud echoes. At the same moment there

came a sound resembling the quick opening, and as rapid closing

of a door overhead, while a faint gleam of light flashed suddenly

through the gloom, and as suddenly faded away.

I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared for me, and

congratulated myself upon the timely accident by which I had

escaped. Another step before my fall, and the world had seen me

no more. And the death just avoided, was of that very character

which I had regarded as fabulous and frivolous in the tales

respecting the Inquisition. To the victims of its tyranny, there

was the choice of death with its direst physical agonies, or

death with its most hideous moral horrors. I had been reserved

for the latter. By long suffering my nerves had been unstrung,

until I trembled at the sound of my own voice, and had become in

every respect a fitting subject for the species of torture which

awaited me.

Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to the wall—resolving

there to perish rather than risk the terrors of the wells, of

which my imagination now pictured many in various positions about

the dungeon. In other conditions of mind I might have had courage

to end my misery at once by a plunge into one of these abysses;

but now I was the veriest of cowards. Neither could I forget what

I had read of these pits—that the sudden extinction of life

formed no part of their most horrible plan.

Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long hours, but at

length I again slumbered. Upon arousing, I found by my side, as

before, a loaf and a pitcher of water. A burning thirst consumed

me, and I emptied the vessel at a draught. It must have been

drugged—for scarcely had I drunk, before I became irresistibly

drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon me—a sleep like that of death. How

long it lasted of course, I know not; but when, once again, I

unclosed my eyes, the objects around me were visible. By a wild

sulphurous lustre, the origin of which I could not at first

determine, I was enabled to see the extent and aspect of the

prison.

In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The whole circuit of its

walls did not exceed twenty-five yards. For some minutes this

fact occasioned me a world of vain trouble; vain indeed! for what

could be of less importance, under the terrible circumstances

which environed me, then the mere dimensions of my dungeon? But

my soul took a wild interest in trifles, and I busied myself in

endeavors to account for the error I had committed in my

measurement. The truth at length flashed upon me. In my first

attempt at exploration I had counted fifty-two paces, up to the

period when I fell; I must then have been within a pace or two of

the fragment of serge; in fact, I had nearly performed the

circuit of the vault. I then slept—and, upon awaking, I must have

returned upon my steps—thus supposing the circuit nearly double

what it actually was. My confusion of mind prevented me from

observing that I began my tour with the wall to the left, and

ended it with the wall to the right.

I had been deceived, too, in respect to the shape of the

enclosure. In feeling my way I had found many angles, and thus

deduced an idea of great irregularity; so potent is the effect of

total darkness upon one arousing from lethargy or sleep! The

angles were simply those of a few slight depressions, or niches,

at odd intervals. The general shape of the prison was square.

What I had taken for masonry seemed now to be iron, or some other

metal, in huge plates, whose sutures or joints occasioned the

depression. The entire surface of this metallic enclosure was

rudely daubed in all the hideous and repulsive devices to which

the charnel superstition of the monks has given rise. The figures

of fiends in aspects of menace, with skeleton forms, and other

more really fearful images, overspread and disfigured the walls.

I observed that the outlines of these monstrosities were

sufficiently distinct, but that the colors seemed faded and

blurred, as if from the effects of a damp atmosphere. I now

noticed the floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned

the circular pit from whose jaws I had escaped; but it was the

only one in the dungeon.

All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort—for my personal

condition had been greatly changed during slumber. I now lay upon

my back, and at full length, on a species of low framework of

wood. To this I was securely bound by a long strap resembling a

surcingle. It passed in many convolutions about my limbs and

body, leaving at liberty only my head, and my left arm to such

extent that I could, by dint of much exertion, supply myself with

food from an earthen dish which lay by my side on the floor. I

saw, to my horror, that the pitcher had been removed. I say to my

horror—for I was consumed with intolerable thirst. This thirst it

appeared to be the design of my persecutors to stimulate—for the

food in the dish was meat pungently seasoned.

Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my prison. It was some

thirty or forty feet overhead, and constructed much as the side

walls. In one of its panels a very singular figure riveted my

whole attention. It was the painted figure of Time as he is

commonly represented, save that, in lieu of a scythe, he held

what, at a casual glance, I supposed to be the pictured image of

a huge pendulum such as we see on antique clocks. There was

something, however, in the appearance of this machine which

caused me to regard it more attentively. While I gazed directly

upward at it (for its position was immediately over my own) I

fancied that I saw it in motion. In an instant afterward the

fancy was confirmed. Its sweep was brief, and of course slow. I

watched it for some minutes, somewhat in fear, but more in

wonder. Wearied at length with observing its dull movement, I

turned my eyes upon the other objects in the cell.

A slight noise attracted my notice, and, looking to the floor, I

saw several enormous rats traversing it. They had issued from the

well, which lay just within view to my right. Even then, while I

gazed, they came up in troops, hurriedly, with ravenous eyes,

allured by the scent of the meat. From this it required much

effort and attention to scare them away.

It might have been half an hour, perhaps even an hour, (for I

could take but imperfect note of time) before I again cast my

eyes upward. What I then saw confounded and amazed me. The sweep

of the pendulum had increased in extent by nearly a yard. As a

natural consequence, its velocity was also much greater. But what

mainly disturbed me was the idea that had perceptibly descended.

I now observed—with what horror it is needless to say—that its

nether extremity was formed of a crescent of glittering steel,

about a foot in length from horn to horn; the horns upward, and

the under edge evidently as keen as that of a razor. Like a razor

also, it seemed massy and heavy, tapering from the edge into a

solid and broad structure above. It was appended to a weighty rod

of brass, and the whole hissed as it swung through the air.

I could no longer doubt the doom prepared for me by monkish

ingenuity in torture. My cognizance of the pit had become known

to the inquisitorial agents—the pit, whose horrors had been

destined for so bold a recusant as myself—the pit, typical of

hell, and regarded by rumor as the Ultima Thule of all their

punishments. The plunge into this pit I had avoided by the merest

of accidents, I knew that surprise, or entrapment into torment,

formed an important portion of all the grotesquerie of these

dungeon deaths. Having failed to fall, it was no part of the

demon plan to hurl me into the abyss; and thus (there being no

alternative) a different and a milder destruction awaited me.

Milder! I half smiled in my agony as I thought of such

application of such a term.

What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of horror more than

mortal, during which I counted the rushing vibrations of the

steel! Inch by inch—line by line—with a descent only appreciable

at intervals that seemed ages—down and still down it came! Days

passed—it might have been that many days passed—ere it swept so

closely over me as to fan me with its acrid breath. The odor of

the sharp steel forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed—I

wearied heaven with my prayer for its more speedy descent. I grew

frantically mad, and struggled to force myself upward against the

sweep of the fearful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly calm, and

lay smiling at the glittering death, as a child at some rare

bauble.

There was another interval of utter insensibility; it was brief;

for, upon again lapsing into life there had been no perceptible

descent in the pendulum. But it might have been long; for I knew

there were demons who took note of my swoon, and who could have

arrested the vibration at pleasure. Upon my recovery, too, I felt

very—oh! inexpressibly—sick and weak, as if through long

inanition. Even amid the agonies of that period, the human nature

craved food. With painful effort I outstretched my left arm as

far as my bonds permitted, and took possession of the small

remnant which had been spared me by the rats. As I put a portion

of it within my lips, there rushed to my mind a half formed

thought of joy—of hope. Yet what business had I with hope? It

was, as I say, a half formed thought—man has many such, which are

never completed. I felt that it was of joy—of hope; but felt also

that it had perished in its formation. In vain I struggled to

perfect—to regain it. Long suffering had nearly annihilated all

my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile—an idiot.

The vibration of the pendulum was at right angles to my length. I

saw that the crescent was designed to cross the region of the

heart. It would fray the serge of my robe—it would return and

repeat its operations—again—and again. Notwithstanding its

terrifically wide sweep (some thirty feet or more) and the

hissing vigor of its descent, sufficient to sunder these very

walls of iron, still the fraying of my robe would be all that,

for several minutes, it would accomplish. And at this thought I

paused. I dared not go farther than this reflection. I dwelt upon

it with a pertinacity of attention—as if, in so dwelling, I could

arrest here the descent of the steel. I forced myself to ponder

upon the sound of the crescent as it should pass across the

garment—upon the peculiar thrilling sensation which the friction

of cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered upon all this

frivolity until my teeth were on edge.

Down—steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied pleasure in

contrasting its downward with its lateral velocity. To the

right—to the left—far and wide—with the shriek of a damned

spirit! to my heart with the stealthy pace of the tiger! I

alternately laughed and howled as the one or the other idea grew

predominant.

Down—certainly, relentlessly down! It vibrated within three

inches of my bosom! I struggled violently, furiously, to free my

left arm. This was free only from the elbow to the hand. I could

reach the latter, from the platter beside me, to my mouth, with

great effort, but no farther. Could I have broken the fastenings

above the elbow, I would have seized and attempted to arrest the

pendulum. I might as well have attempted to arrest an avalanche!

Down—still unceasingly—still inevitably down! I gasped and

struggled at each vibration. I shrunk convulsively at its every

sweep. My eyes followed its outward or upward whirls with the

eagerness of the most unmeaning despair; they closed themselves

spasmodically at the descent, although death would have been a

relief, oh, how unspeakable! Still I quivered in every nerve to

think how slight a sinking of the machinery would precipitate

that keen, glistening axe upon my bosom. It was hope that

prompted the nerve to quiver—the frame to shrink. It was hope—the

hope that triumphs on the rack—that whispers to the

death-condemned even in the dungeons of the Inquisition.

I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would bring the steel in

actual contact with my robe, and with this observation there

suddenly came over my spirit all the keen, collected calmness of

despair. For the first time during many hours—or perhaps days—I

thought. It now occurred to me that the bandage, or surcingle,

which enveloped me, was unique. I was tied by no separate cord.

The first stroke of the razorlike crescent athwart any portion of

the band, would so detach it that it might be unwound from my

person by means of my left hand. But how fearful, in that case,

the proximity of the steel! The result of the slightest struggle

how deadly! Was it likely, moreover, that the minions of the

torturer had not foreseen and provided for this possibility? Was

it probable that the bandage crossed my bosom in the track of the

pendulum? Dreading to find my faint, and, as it seemed, my last

hope frustrated, I so far elevated my head as to obtain a

distinct view of my breast. The surcingle enveloped my limbs and

body close in all directions—save in the path of the destroying

crescent.

Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its original position,

when there flashed upon my mind what I cannot better describe

than as the unformed half of that idea of deliverance to which I

have previously alluded, and of which a moiety only floated

indeterminately through my brain when I raised food to my burning

lips. The whole thought was now present—feeble, scarcely sane,

scarcely definite,—but still entire. I proceeded at once, with

the nervous energy of despair, to attempt its execution.

For many hours the immediate vicinity of the low framework upon

which I lay had been literally swarming with rats. They were

wild, bold, ravenous—their red eyes glaring upon me as if they

waited but for motionlessness on my part to make me their prey.

“To what food,” I thought, “have they been accustomed in the

well?”

They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to prevent them,

all but a small remnant of the contents of the dish. I had fallen

into an habitual see-saw, or wave of the hand about the platter;

and, at length, the unconscious uniformity of the movement

deprived it of effect. In their voracity the vermin frequently

fastened their sharp fangs in my fingers. With the particles of

the oily and spicy viand which now remained, I thoroughly rubbed

the bandage wherever I could reach it; then, raising my hand from

the floor, I lay breathlessly still.

At first the ravenous animals were startled and terrified at the

change—at the cessation of movement. They shrank alarmedly back;

many sought the well. But this was only for a moment. I had not

counted in vain upon their voracity. Observing that I remained

without motion, one or two of the boldest leaped upon the

frame-work, and smelt at the surcingle. This seemed the signal

for a general rush. Forth from the well they hurried in fresh

troops. They clung to the wood—they overran it, and leaped in

hundreds upon my person. The measured movement of the pendulum

disturbed them not at all. Avoiding its strokes they busied

themselves with the anointed bandage. They pressed—they swarmed

upon me in ever accumulating heaps. They writhed upon my throat;

their cold lips sought my own; I was half stifled by their

thronging pressure; disgust, for which the world has no name,

swelled my bosom, and chilled, with a heavy clamminess, my heart.

Yet one minute, and I felt that the struggle would be over.

Plainly I perceived the loosening of the bandage. I knew that in

more than one place it must be already severed. With a more than

human resolution I lay still.

Nor had I erred in my calculations—nor had I endured in vain. I

at length felt that I was free. The surcingle hung in ribands

from my body. But the stroke of the pendulum already pressed upon

my bosom. It had divided the serge of the robe. It had cut

through the linen beneath. Twice again it swung, and a sharp

sense of pain shot through every nerve. But the moment of escape

had arrived. At a wave of my hand my deliverers hurried

tumultuously away. With a steady movement—cautious, sidelong,

shrinking, and slow—I slid from the embrace of the bandage and

beyond the reach of the scimitar. For the moment, at least, I was

free.

Free!—and in the grasp of the Inquisition! I had scarcely stepped

from my wooden bed of horror upon the stone floor of the prison,

when the motion of the hellish machine ceased and I beheld it

drawn up, by some invisible force, through the ceiling. This was

a lesson which I took desperately to heart. My every motion was

undoubtedly watched. Free!—I had but escaped death in one form of

agony, to be delivered unto worse than death in some other. With

that thought I rolled my eves nervously around on the barriers of

iron that hemmed me in. Something unusual—some change which, at

first, I could not appreciate distinctly—it was obvious, had

taken place in the apartment. For many minutes of a dreamy and

trembling abstraction, I busied myself in vain, unconnected

conjecture. During this period, I became aware, for the first

time, of the origin of the sulphurous light which illumined the

cell. It proceeded from a fissure, about half an inch in width,

extending entirely around the prison at the base of the walls,

which thus appeared, and were, completely separated from the

floor. I endeavored, but of course in vain, to look through the

aperture.

As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the alteration in the

chamber broke at once upon my understanding. I have observed

that, although the outlines of the figures upon the walls were

sufficiently distinct, yet the colors seemed blurred and

indefinite. These colors had now assumed, and were momentarily

assuming, a startling and most intense brilliancy, that gave to

the spectral and fiendish portraitures an aspect that might have

thrilled even firmer nerves than my own. Demon eyes, of a wild

and ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a thousand directions,

where none had been visible before, and gleamed with the lurid

lustre of a fire that I could not force my imagination to regard

as unreal.

Unreal!—Even while I breathed there came to my nostrils the

breath of the vapour of heated iron! A suffocating odour pervaded

the prison! A deeper glow settled each moment in the eyes that

glared at my agonies! A richer tint of crimson diffused itself

over the pictured horrors of blood. I panted! I gasped for

breath! There could be no doubt of the design of my

tormentors—oh! most unrelenting! oh! most demoniac of men! I

shrank from the glowing metal to the centre of the cell. Amid the

thought of the fiery destruction that impended, the idea of the

coolness of the well came over my soul like balm. I rushed to its

deadly brink. I threw my straining vision below. The glare from

the enkindled roof illumined its inmost recesses. Yet, for a wild

moment, did my spirit refuse to comprehend the meaning of what I

saw. At length it forced—it wrestled its way into my soul—it

burned itself in upon my shuddering reason. Oh! for a voice to

speak!—oh! horror!—oh! any horror but this! With a shriek, I

rushed from the margin, and buried my face in my hands—weeping

bitterly.

The heat rapidly increased, and once again I looked up,

shuddering as with a fit of the ague. There had been a second

change in the cell—and now the change was obviously in the form.

As before, it was in vain that I, at first, endeavoured to

appreciate or understand what was taking place. But not long was

I left in doubt. The Inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried by

my two-fold escape, and there was to be no more dallying with the

King of Terrors. The room had been square. I saw that two of its

iron angles were now acute—two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful

difference quickly increased with a low rumbling or moaning

sound. In an instant the apartment had shifted its form into that

of a lozenge. But the alteration stopped not here—I neither hoped

nor desired it to stop. I could have clasped the red walls to my

bosom as a garment of eternal peace. “Death,” I said, “any death

but that of the pit!” Fool! might I have not known that into the

pit it was the object of the burning iron to urge me? Could I

resist its glow? or, if even that, could I withstand its

pressure? And now, flatter and flatter grew the lozenge, with a

rapidity that left me no time for contemplation. Its centre, and

of course, its greatest width, came just over the yawning gulf. I

shrank back—but the closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward.

At length for my seared and writhing body there was no longer an

inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no

more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and

final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink—I

averted my eyes—

There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud

blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a

thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched

arm caught my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was

that of General Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The

Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.