“He dies at daybreak—ha, ha, ha—he dies by the wheel.”
And as he laughed, the man-at-arms, Hugo, let fall the end of his pike upon the dark pavement, and the sound echoed along the gloom of the gallery, like thunder, every arch repeating the echo, and every nook and corner of the obscure passage taking up the sound, until, an indistinct murmur swelled from all sides, and the voices of the Invisible seemed whispering from the old and blood-stained walls.
“He dies at daybreak! Right, Hugo—the Goblet and the Ring, sent him to the doomsman!”
“And I—I—the Doomsman will have his blood! How looked he, good Balvardo, when the sentence of the Duke rang thro’ the hall—“Death, Death to the Parricide?” Quailed he or begged for mercy!”
“Quail? ‘Slife I’ve seen the eye of the dying war-horse, when the poisoned arrow was in his heart, and the death-cry of his master in his ears, but the mad glare of his eye never thrilled me, like the deep glance of this—murderer! Blood of the Turk, his eye burned like a coal!”
“Tell me, tell me, how was the murder fixed upon him? Who laid it to his hands?”
“Blood o’ th’ Turk! Must thou know everything. Then go ask the gossips, at the corners of the streets, and hear them tell in frightened murmurs, how the Poisoned Bowl was found on the beaufet, how the Signet-Ring was found in the bowl, how the Robe was thrown over the secret threshold, and—ha, ha, how one Balvardo swore to certain words uttered by the—Parricide, wishes for the old lord’s death, hopes of hot-brained youth, and mysterious whispers about that Ring, and—”
“How one Hugo—ha, ha,—swore to his guilt in like manner. Faith did I—how I met the young Lord, in the southern corridor about high noon, how he turned pale when I told him, with every mark of respect, be sure, that he had forgotten his crimson robe, and—”
“So ye gave him to the Doomsman?” shrieked the executioner, as his thick-set hump-backed figure was disclosed in the solitary light, hanging from the ceiling of the gallery—“So ye gave him—Lord Adrian—to me, to the pincers and the knife, to the hot lead, and the wheel of torture! You are brave fellows—ha, ha, he dies at daybreak—and the Doomsman thanks ye!”
The two sentinels watching in the Gaol of Florence, besides the gloomy door of the Doomed Cell, started with a sudden thrill of fear, as they looked upon the distorted form, and hideous face, of the wretch who stood laughing and chattering before their eyes.