"Tremens factus sum ego!"
"Et timeo, dum discussio venerit, atque venerit ira!"
Once more the great bell tolled heavily, and its discordant tone seemed to tear his brain. He uttered an involuntary cry,—every weak impulse in his soul was aroused,—and in the excess of a miserable self-pity he longed to excuse himself for his crime of treachery and cruelty to the innocent woman who loved him,—to throw the blame on someone else,—if he could only find that someone else! Anything rather than own himself to be the mean wretch and traitor that he was. For he was a cultured and clever man,—a scholar,—an artist,—a poet;—these things were not consistent with murder! A man who painted beautiful pictures,—a man who wrote exquisite verses,—he could never be suspected of stabbing a helpless trusting woman in the back out of sheer jealousy, like a common hired assassin! No no! He could never be suspected! Why had he not thought of his intellectual gifts,—his position in the world of art, before? No one in their senses could possibly accuse him in the way he had imagined!—and even if the dagger-sheath were found, some explanation might be given,—someone else might be found guilty . . .
"Quando coeli movendi sunt et terra;
Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem!"
Again that horrible bell! Moved by a sudden desperate determination to find out what this mysterious chanting was, and where it came from, he braced himself up and walked resolutely and quickly on to a great gateway, cross-barred and surmounted with tall spikes,—and there seized by fresh panic, he clung to the grating for support and stared through it affrightedly, his teeth chattering and his whole frame shaking as with an ague fit. What were those dark terrible figures he saw? Were they phantoms or men? Gaunt and black and tall, they swayed to and fro, now bending, now rising, in the misty splendour of the moonlight,—they were busy with the ground, digging it and casting out shovels full of earth in heaps beside them. Each ghostly figure stood by itself apart from its companions,—each one worked at its task alone,—and only their voices mingled in harsh dismal unison as, with the next stroke of the solemn bell, they chanted
"Dies ilia dies irae,
Calamitatis et miseriae!"
"No!" shrieked Varillo suddenly, shaking the gateway like an infuriated madman—"What are you doing in there? Who told you to sing my mass or prepare my grave? I am not ready, I tell you! Not ready! I have done nothing to deserve death—nothing!—I have not been tried!—you must wait—you must wait till you know all—you must wait! . . ."
His voice choked in utterance, and thrusting one hand through the grating he made frantic gesticulations to the spectral figure nearest him. It paused in its toil and lifted its head,—and from the dark folds of a drooping cowl, two melancholy deep-set eyes glittered out like the eyes of a famished beast. The other spectres paused also, but only for a moment,—the bell boomed menacingly over their heads once more, and again they dug and delved, and again they chanted in dreary monotone—
"Dies magna et amara valde,
Dum veneris judicare!
Libera nos Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda!"
Wild with terror Varillo shook the gate more furiously than before.
"Stop I tell you!" he cried—"It is too soon! You are burying me before my time. You have no proof against me—none! I am young,—full of life and strength—the world loves me—wants me!—and I—I will not die!—no I will not!—not yet! Not yet—I am not ready! Stop—stop! You do not know what you are doing—stop! You are driving me mad with your horrible singing!" And he shrieked aloud. "Mad, I tell you!—mad!"