Clutching the massive stones, he paced along the other walls or sides of the room, with weary and difficult footsteps, and at last traversed the three sides, and leaning against the wall, he endeavored to impress his wandering mind with some definite idea of the shape and dimensions of the vault.
“I stand in a small room, with floor and walls of massive stone,” he slowly muttered, “it is square in shape, and each side of the cell is five paces in length, and somewhat more than the stature of a man in height. The stones are solid, and to all appearance are some three feet thick. There is no outlet, no passage from the vault. I am indeed—Buried, and buried alive!”
He passed with difficult steps along the fourth wall of the vault, determined to repose his shattered frame awhile, even though his resting place was his coffin. In a moment measuring three paces, he arrived at the spot where he supposed he had left the coffin. Extending his foot to and fro, in search of his late tenement, he was struck with a new horror:
“It is gone—the coffin is gone!”
Words cannot picture the utter horror with which this was spoken.
All the despair that an Angel of God might feel, when toppled from the battlements of Heaven into the infernal abyss, then visited the breast of Adrian Di Albarone.
“It is a mere phantasy,” he exclaimed, “I have chanced upon the wrong side of the room.”
Again the sides of the vault were paced, and yet the coffin was not within his reach.
It was gone from its position near the wall, and his physical strength did not suffice to advance toward the centre of the room.
What invisible hand was it, that removed the Coffin?