'This is torture upon torture. O my God—is life worth living?' wailed Mary in her heart, asking unconsciously the question of a brilliant essayist.
CHAPTER XI.
A DARK PREDICTION.
It is perhaps impossible to describe adequately all that passed with the speed of thought through Cecil's mind when the group of Servian officials approached the room in which he was confined.
He had heard the drums beaten at sunset, and somehow deemed the falling in of the pickets—though a usual circumstance—a prelude, perhaps, to his own execution, or a hopeless and degrading transmission to some fortress, he knew not where; and where, too probably, he would never be heard of again, but pass through life chained to a heavy shot, with a number painted on his canvas caftan.
Well, death, however sudden, was better than such a fate!
For a moment or two his blood had stood still as the comers drew near, and the noise of their swords and spurs was heard on the stair. The unlocking of the door found an echo in his heart.
He nerved himself, with a prayer on his lips, to hear the worst they had to tell him—desperation and resignation curiously mingling in his mind.
'Oh why,' he muttered, 'are we born—why do we live only to endure, to suffer, and to die?'
Then he thought of the poor girl who shrunk close to him in her disguise, and a great fear for her was added to his own agony of soul.