CHAPTER XVII.
WAGNER IN PRISON—A VISITOR.
It was evening; and Wagner paced his narrow dungeon with agitated steps.
Far beneath the level of the ground, and under the ducal palace, was that gloomy prison, having no window, save a grating in the massive door to admit the air.
A lamp burned dimly upon the table, whereon stood also the coarse prison fare provided for the captive, but which was untouched.
The clanking of the weapons of the sentinels, who kept guard in the passage from which the various dungeons opened, fell mournfully upon Fernand’s ears, and every moment reminded him of the apparent impossibility to escape—even if such an idea possessed him.
The lamp had burned throughout the day in his dungeon; for the light of heaven could not penetrate that horrible subterranean cell—and it was only by the payment of gold that he had induced the jailer to permit him the indulgence of the artificial substitute for the rays of the glorious sun.
“Oh! wretched being that I am!” he thought within himself, as he paced the stone floor of his prison-house; “the destiny of the accursed is mine! Ah! fool—dotard that I was to exchange the honors of old age for the vicissitudes of a renewed existence! Had nature taken her course, I should probably now be sleeping in a quiet grave—and my soul might be in the regions of the blessed. But the tempter came, and dazzled me with prospects of endless happiness—and I succumbed! Oh! Faust! would that thou hadst never crossed the threshold of my humble cottage in the Black Forest! How much sorrow—how much misery should I have been spared! Better—better to have remained in poverty—solitude—helplessness—worn down by the weight of years—and crushed by the sense of utter loneliness—oh! better to have endured all this, than to have taken on myself a new tenure of that existence which is so marked with misery and woe!”
He threw himself upon a seat, and endeavored to reflect on his position with calmness; but he could not!
Starting up, he again paced the dungeon in an agitated manner.
“Holy God!” he exclaimed aloud, “how much wretchedness has fallen upon me in a single day! Agnes murdered—Nisida perhaps forever estranged from me—myself accused of a dreadful crime, whereof I am innocent—and circumstances all combining so wonderfully against me! But who could have perpetrated the appalling deed? Can that mysterious lady, whom Agnes spoke of so frequently, and who, by her description, so closely resembled my much-loved Nisida—can she——”