And then, as with trembling hands he examined his emaciated face, with the cheek-bones pressing hard against the parched skin, he beheld rising before his soul, one ghastly idea, which would pale the cheek of the bravest man that ever went to battle, or chill with horror and despair, the heart of the holiest Priest that ever offered prayers to God, an idea to which all other horrors were as nothing, all terrors, all fears, all deaths trifling and insignificant.
And the nameless thought, his husky voice gave to the air in a hollow whisper.
“Buried-Alive!”
And a hollow echo returned the word “alive, alive!”
“It comes back to my soul,” he slowly murmured, “the scene in the chamber of the convent—the Monk—oh, curses on the traitor—the potion, all, all come back to me! Buried Alive! Devil in human shape—he did not drug the bowl with death, but with—sleep! This, this is the revenge of the Duke, and, and Albertine was the tool of the triple murderer! Buried Alive!”
He tried to arise from the coffin, but for a long time his efforts were in vain.
His frame was stiffened in every sinew, and his limbs were benumbed by his long repose.
At last he stood erect upon the floor of stone, and extending his hands, grasped the massive walls.
“There is yet one hope,” he murmured, “there may be some outlet from the funeral vault!”
With slow and leaden footsteps he passed along the wall, measuring its length. It was five paces long. The stones were all solid, massive, and firm. His upraised hand touched the ceiling, as it extended some three inches higher than his head.