He demanded, therefore, for his last night, nothing further than to be left alone, and without a light. The jailer extinguished the light and left the cell. But he did not shove the great iron bolt across the door. He did not put the large padlock on it, but he only left the door slightly ajar, and did not lock it at all.
Henry Howard took no notice of this. What cared he, whether this gate was locked or no-he who no longer had a desire for life and freedom!
He leaned back on his seat, and dreamed with eyes open. There below in the yard they were working on the scaffold which Henry Howard was to ascend as soon as day dawned. The dull monotony of the strokes of the hammers fell on his ear. Now and then the torches, which lighted the workmen at their melancholy task, allowed to shine up into his cell a pale glimmer of light, which danced on the walls in ghost-like shapes.
“There are the ghosts of all those that Henry has put to death,” thought Henry Howard; “they gather around me; like will-o’-the-wisps, they dance with me the dance of death, and in a few hours I shall be forever theirs.”
The dull noise of hammers and saws continued steadily on, and Henry Howard sank deeper and deeper in reverie.
He thought, he felt, and desired nothing but Geraldine. His whole soul was concentrated in that single thought of her. It seemed to him he could bid his spirit see her, as though he could command his senses to perceive her. Yes, she was there; he felt-he was conscious of her presence. Again he lay at her feet, and leaned his head on her knee, and listened again to those charming revelations of her love.
Completely borne away from the present, and from existence, he saw, he felt, only her. The mystery of love was perfected, and, under the veil of night, Geraldine had again winged her way to him, and he to her.
A happy smile played about his lips, which faltered forth rapturous words of greeting. Overcome by a wonderful hallucination, he saw his beloved approaching him; he stretched out his arms to clasp her; and it did not arouse him when he felt instead of her only the empty air.
“Why do you float away from me again, Geraldine?” asked he, in a low tone. “Wherefore do you withdraw from my arms, to whirl with the will-o’-the-wisps in the death-dance? Come, Geraldine, come; my soul burns for you. My heart calls you with its last faltering throb. Come, Geraldine, oh, come!”
What was that? It was as though the door were gently opened, and the latch again gently fastened. It was as though a foot were moving softly over the floor-as though the shape of a human form shaded for a moment the flickering light which danced around the walls.