CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE COFFIN AND THE CORSE.
THE CLOCK STRIKES ONE, AND THE SWORDER SEALS HIS FATE BY A TOUCH OF THE FATAL SPRING.
Far beneath the Convent, down in the very bosom of the earth, far beneath the chamber of the death-bowl, alone and in darkness, rested the coffin and the corse for the space of an hour, awaiting the spade and the Sexton, the priest with his prayers, and the grave with its silence.
The sound of trampling feet, broke along the silence of the earth hidden passage, and presently, through the crevices of the dungeon door, thin rays of light streamed along the cell.
Then there was drawing of bolts, and rattling of chains, and in an instant the ruddy glare of torches, revealed the ill-looking form of Balvardo, standing in the doorway, and beside him stood a short, thin old man, with slight locks of gray hair, falling upon his coarse doublet.
There was a vacant and wandering expression in his eye, while his parched lips, hanging apart, gave an idiotic appearance to his countenance. The long, talon-like fingers of his withered right hand, grasped a spade covered with rust, and eaten by time.
“Ha—ha!” laughed Balvardo. “The potion which I gave her, some hours ago, wrapt her in a sleep, like the slumber of old death. Blood o’ the Turk, how her hands clutched the body o’ the dead, when I first tried to tear it from her arms—even in her sleep she clutched it! I have him at last—sound and sure! He escaped me in the cell of the Doomed, escaped this sword in the Cavern of the Dead, and—and—now, by the fiend I have him at last!”
The Sworder advanced to the Coffin, he gazed upon the pale face of the dead, with a long and anxious look.
“He, he, he,” chuckled the old man. “Why did thou hate him, noble Captain?”
“I know not,” muttered Balvardo, with an absent air, “yet I always had a sneaking suspicion that one day or other, this man, now a corse, would work my death! A queer feeling always haunted me, that made me feel like the felon walking to his doom, so long as this—father-murderer remained alive! Now he is dead, but I fear him yet, and will fear him till he is safely buried i’ the earth!”
“Thou wouldst cover his face with this rich, yellow earth?” sneered the ancient man,—“He, he, he! The grave hides all secrets!”