"Keep away!" he yelled.
Then he stood, hushed, with bated breath, eyes starting into the blackness, listening. And through the dark he heard the creaking and twisting of the key, the slow opening of a heavy door, the groaning of the hinges as it opened, slowly.
The wind howled in a wild gust, and suddenly through the narrow window there showed the black sky torn in two by the lightning flash. As it circled the chamber, Visconti raised his head—the door was open. And through the opening two faces peered—they were not human faces—Visconti knew them when they were.
Utter blackness followed upon the vivid flash, and the thunder crashed and rolled, and at last the rain came with a mighty roar.
"I am in hell!" yelled Visconti. "I am dead, and in hell!" And maniac shrieks rose. He dragged himself to the narrow slit that made the window, and some of the heavy rain-drops were dashed in upon his face.
"I am alive!" he cried, "alive! It does not rain in hell!" He dropped, and lay prone along the ground. After awhile he rose, and began groping for the outer door.
The walls seemed to rock and twist, but on his face and hand was the cold splash of the rain, and Visconti kept a hold upon his self-control, saying between his teeth: "A light; if I can get a light."
He found the door, and struck upon it with the fury of madness.
There was no response: Again he struck and shouted. The worst had gone by, but only to leave his thoughts centered on one idea: to see a human face and in the light.
Suddenly, in the midst of his blows, the door opened, showing a glimmering light, and in the entrance the figure of a soldier, who looked fearfully around the chamber.