“Hold!” screamed Inez, “or, by the holy mass, ye shall heartily rue it! Don Gonzalez! an’ thou wouldst keep me from the Sisters of Mercy, have the cavalier released.”
“I durst not, Inez,” answered her guardian, in a deprecatory tone.
“Thou shalt! thou shalt!” exclaimed Inez, “or, by sweet Jesu!—”
But the excitement, which she had all along supported with difficulty, now shook her brain, and, as she was making a step forward, she reeled back, and broke into an hysterical peal of laughter. She would have fallen, but, whether from pity, or some motive of interest, her uncle sprang to her assistance, and caught her in his arms.
“Away with the prisoner!” he cried to Don Felix. “I will myself look to my ward.”
The alguazils, on a signal from Don Felix, tightened their hold of Hildebrand, and drew him forth to the garden. Don Felix followed them, and, under his direction, they proceeded to the garden-door, whence they passed into the street. Here, enjoining them to take good care of their prisoner, Don Felix left them, and they pushed on with their charge to the city-prison.
The prison, being situate at the other end of the city, towards the mainland, was some distance from their starting-point, and stood in a quarter to which Hildebrand was a stranger. But, walking at a brisk rate, their progress thither did not occupy them long, and they soon came to a stand before the prison-door.
But a few words of explanation passed between the alguazils and the gaoler. These rendered, Hildebrand was, without further ceremony, pushed within the gaol-door, and given over to the gaoler and his assistants. Two of the last-named functionaries, by the direction of their principal, instantly secured him, and hastened to deprive him of his arms. Having effected their purpose, they hurried him down a flight of steps, at the lower end of the passage, to a subterraneous dungeon, where they left him in hopeless captivity.
Solitude and bondage are melancholy companions. Hearts that never knew the melting influence of pity, or experienced the thrill of fear, but met every vicissitude with a stern and unbending front, have been cowed and overwhelmed by their first whispers, and have been hurried on, by an enlarged and more intimate fellowship, into distraction and despair. They are a sort of living death, enclosing the spark of life in a walled grave, where the air, so sweet and buoyant without, is pestilence, and one’s breath corruption. Acquainted with these, we seem to be dead before our time, and yet, though shut out from action, to live in thought,—to suffer all the terror and captivity of the grave, and be convulsed with the workings of a restless vitality.
As he heard the fastenings of his dungeon-door secured, a chill like that of death, if one can form a conception of the last sensibility of the dying, crept through the bosom of Hildebrand. He was there alone—without solace, without hope, without even God.