The end drew nigh.
The moments, those moments of horror, which seemed lengthened to years, dragged on with steps of lead, and the room grew like a furnace, the walls gave forth an intolerable heat. The ceiling rapidly became a canopy of invisible fire, as the air itself changed to unseen fire, began to burn into the flesh of Adrian, as the wretch in his arms writhed and writhed in helpless agony.
“Water—water—water!” gasped the Sworder.
A thought flashed over the mind of Adrian.
“There may be water in this well—a fountain may spring bubbling from its depths, while we perish on the brink! The way is deep and dark—a single misplaced grasp or foothold, and my body goes whirling to the abyss below; yet I am urged on by a power I cannot name—I will descend the well!”
A moment and the head of Balvardo lay on the pavement of the stone-room, while the body of Adrian hung swinging in the abyss, as, with his hands grasping the projecting stones, he began that fearful descent.
“I go to bring thee water!” he shouted in the ear of the famished wretch—“I go to bring thee water for thy burning tongue and brow.”
“Then, take this—this—” was the gasping response, and Adrian felt a substance of metal pressed against his brow by an extended hand; “’twill hold the—the water, or, ha, ha,—the blood!”
Hanging over the abyss by the grasp of one trembling hand, Adrian seized the metal substance with the other.
It was a goblet, a goblet of gold, embossed with strangely shapen flowers, and heraldic insignia, and as Adrian placed the vessel within the confines of his doublet, a shudder of horror caused his frame to quiver over the unknown void.