“This is the fate, to which ye have given him; this proud Lord now sleeping in the Chamber of the Doomed—to me, the Doomsman, to the wheel, to the knotted club, to the knife, the hot iron, and the melted lead, to the dishonor ye have given him! Ha—ha—ha—these hands itch for his blood. To-morrow’s rising sun will gleam on the scene, this merry scene—The Doom of the Poisoner.”
The Sentinels heard a hurried footstep, followed by a closing door, the Doomsman had disappeared. They turned with looks of horror, of remorse, mingled with all the fear and torture that the human soul can feel, stamped in their faces, while from one to the other broke the whisper—
“He sleeps within yon cell—the Doomsman’s cell, till the first glimpse of the morrow morn shall rouse him to this work—this work of horror and of—Doom.”[1]
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
ADRIAN THE DOOMED.
The wierd and mystic spirit that rules this chronicle, throws open to your view the cell of the Doomed.
It is a sad and gloomy place, where every dark stone has its tale of blood, every name, rudely scratched on the damp wall, its legend of despair.
All is silent; not a whisper, not a sob, not a sound. The silence is so breathless that you fear the spirits of the condemned, who passed from this chamber to the Wheel and the Block, may start into life—at the echo of a footstep from the dark corners of the room, and appal your eye with their shapes of horror.
The cresset of iron fixed to the rough wall, threw a dim light over the form of the Doomed, as seated upon a rough bench, with his head drooped between his clenched hands, his elbows resting on his knees, his golden hair faded to a dingy brown, falling over his shoulders and hiding his countenance, he mused with the secrets of his heart, and called up before his soul the mighty panorama of despair—the wheel, the block, the doomsman, and the multitude.
Adrian the Doomed raised his form from the oaken bench, and paced the dungeon floor. He was not shackled by manacles or clogged by chains.
It was the last night of his existence; escape came not within his thoughts, the walls were built of rock; hundreds of armed sentinels paced the long galleries of the prison, and a guard of two men-at-arms watched without the triple-locked and triple-bolted door of the Doomed chamber.