Adrian sate him down on the edge of the well, with his feet dangling in the abyss, and gave his very soul to one long and painful effort of thought.
Death clutched him with a thousand arms, death was in the heated air, death came gibbering and laughing in the form of famine, and from the very depths of the abyss the doomed lord could fancy he beheld the form of the Skeleton-God, with arms outstretched to grasp his victim as he fell.
There was no hope.
He must die. He must die afar from the voice of friend, afar from the sight of earth, or the vision of the blue sky, he must die by the slow gnawings of famine, the gradual withering of fire, or by one sudden plunge into the abyss below.
He sate him down to die—his arms were folded, and yet with an eager gesture he held his face over the darkness of the abyss in the nervous effort to inhale each breath of air.
He strove to compose his mind to prayer, but the gasping of the wretch lying near his side diverted his attention from thoughts of God and the better world.
“Why didst thou hate me?” he slowly asked.
“I was afraid—thou—wouldst—live to do me wrong. Thou art revenged—I die by inches!”
The wretch groaned in very agony, and Adrian could hear his fingers clutching convulsively along the floor of stone.
“My God, my God,” cried the doomed lord, as his very soul was wrung by the woe of the forsaken wretch; “would I had one cup of water to cool his burning tongue—”