She was too wreak, too hopeless, to think it worth while to make any reflections on Donat’s unaccountable conduct in regaining the upper apartments of the fortress, (which, she was convinced, was already in the enemy’s possession,) instead of employing these precious moments to effect his escape. They now arrived at the door of that chamber, which concealed the entrance to the subterraneous passages: the touch of a single key was sufficient to make all the seven locks fly back. Donat entered, and compelled his unhappy wife to follow him; he then took the torch from the domestic, and commanded him to execute his orders without delay, and then to provide for his own safety. The servant bowed, and retired.
Now then Helen was at length in that very spot, which she had so anxiously wished to visit, but not with such a companion. Donat paused for a moment; and she could hear distinctly, that the domestic fastened the door through which she had entered, not omitting a single lock. Her tyrant left her no time for reflecting on the purpose for which she had been conducted hither; he hastened to unclose the secret door which led to Urania’s baths, dragged her through it, and then commanded her to proceed, having first taken care to fasten the door after him.
Helen obeyed, and as she moved slowly forwards, through the subterraneous passages, she observed that her husband occasionally examined the side-walls with his hand or foot. At length he stopped before a small door half sunk in the ground; he forced it open with a violence which shook the whole cavern, and held his torch within, in order to examine it.
—“Yes, yes!” said he, “this is it! Found in good time!—Helen, return! or canst thou find the way through these vaults without assistance?”—
She dragged her feeble steps towards him: he grasped her arm, and dashed her with violence down a few steps terminating in a small cave. She sank on the ground with a shriek of pain, which her tyrant answered by a burst of diabolical laughter.
—“Here, traitress!” he exclaimed; “here is the place of your punishment and your perdition; and here is the last nourishment, which you shall ever receive on this side the grave. I give it not out of compassion, but that you may not perish in your present state of stupor, and thus escape the sense of what I have doomed you to suffer.—Eat! revive to the full consciousness of your misery; then die in agony, as others have died here before you!”—
Thus saying, he placed by her side a loaf of bread and a small flask of water, which he had brought with him in his pilgrim’s scrip. She was not in a condition to make him any answer, and listened in morbid silence, while he quitted the cave, flinging the door after him with violence, and carefully barricading it on the outside to prevent her escape.
Nothing now animated the frame of Helen but mere animal life; and even that was half extinguished by the shock which she had sustained the day before and by long abstinence from all nourishment. She was scarcely conscious of what had past, and it afterwards cost her no little difficulty to recall the recollection of it. Instinct made her seize eagerly the food, of which she had so long been deprived; and the relief, which this afforded her, was the first thing, which brought her to herself, and gave her spirits to ask the question—“What has happened to me? Whither have I been conveyed?”—She thought, that she must be the sport of some fantastic vision, and with the sensation of being totally exhausted she closed her eyes, and endeavoured to end her dream.
A violent shock, which made the hollow ground tremble beneath her, forced her to start up in terror; and she now had strength and recollection sufficient to rush forward a few paces, which brought her to the steps, down which Count Donat had so lately dashed her. An instant after she was sensible of a second shock like that of an earthquake, and which was accompanied by a noise so loud, that for a few moments she was completely stunned. On recovering herself, she was sensible of a strong current of air blowing into the cave: her heart beat violently with hope and fear, while she thought it possible, that the late earthquake might have forced the dungeon open. She hastened up the steps, and with rapture ascertained by the touch that the door had been driven from its fastenings, and that nothing prevented her from quitting her prison. With as much speed, as her extreme weakness and the total obscurity would permit, she hastened to profit by this interposition of Providence. She crept along slowly and cautiously, when on turning a corner she perceived a distant gleam of light. With increased hopes she made the best of her way towards it, and found, that it proceeded from Count Donat’s torch, as it lay half extinguished in the rubbish, among which it had fallen.
Without giving herself time to guess, what motive could have induced her husband to throw away his only guide through the gloom, or how he could have found his way out of these intricate passages without its aid, she caught it eagerly from the ground, cleared the wick from the dust with which it was clogged, and made the flame burn brightly; while she frequently cast a look of anxiety round her, lest some one should be advancing to rob her of this invaluable prize. This apprehension made her proceed with still greater exertion of speed; but she had not gone far, before her way was barred by large heaps of stones and earth: she fancied too, that she heard a faint murmur at no great distance, like some one groaning. She stopped; she listened;—it struck her, that from beneath a pile of stones, which seemed to have lately fallen down, there came a voice, whose accents were familiar to her; but before she could recover herself from the horror, which this idea occasioned her sufficiently to ascertain the truth of her suspicions, a third shock, similar to the two first, but if possible more violent and terrible, overpowered her faculties so completely, that she sank upon the earth, unable to move for several minutes. Fortunately her torch was not extinguished by her fall. She rose; the way, so lately open before her, was now completely blocked up by the earth, which had fallen in; and it seemed to her in the first moments of terror, that she saw the roof tottering above, and felt the ground giving way beneath her. Fear gave her strength, and she fled hastily down a side passage, which accident presented to her, nor rested, till she thought, that the place, which she had reached, was not totally unknown to her. She stopped, and looking down discovered lying on the earth, torn from its hinges, and considerably shattered the low door of that dungeon, which Donat had destined for her grave.