Night was already far advanced when he reached the damp subterranean cell of Bartolomeo and rattled the rusty hooks that held the bolts. The major having fallen into a pleasant revery in which he beheld visions of his future greatness as a martyr to duty's cause, raised his eyes and shrank back as he saw the three men, one of whom carried a cane tipped with hair of an unusual design.
"Get up, you old fool," cried the one who carried the cane, addressing the prisoner, "follow us!"
Bartolomeo rose without a murmur, and, arranging his disordered uniform, stepped between the two soldiers, who bore torches, and who rudely pushed him down a dark stair.
He was no coward, but yet he felt as though he would rather ascend to where he could at least enjoy the sunshine than go further down where it became darker and colder. They walked a considerable distance along dark passages, and halted in front of a rickety iron door. A huge key was thrust into the keyhole and slowly the bolts sprang back.
Accompanied by his guides, Bartolomeo stepped into a gloomy cavern—the torture-chamber. Heavy chains hung on the walls, blocks, tourniquets, thumbscrews, and other implements of torture lay upon the floor, while the corners contained a variety of others which the major could not recognize.
"Sit down," commanded the bearer of the cane, pointing to a block; as Bartolomeo hesitated, a well-directed blow caused him to accelerate his movements. Thereupon the man withdrew, leaving the major and the soldiers behind. The prisoner gazed timidly upon his jailers, and murmured:
"Poor prospects for me."
Although the remark was scarcely audible, a heavy blow from one of the soldiers caused him to stagger, and for the next fifteen minutes he remained silent.